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diff --git a/old/11303-h.zip b/old/11303-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 9be286f..0000000 --- a/old/11303-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/11303-h/11303-h.htm b/old/11303-h/11303-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 9c0ef14..0000000 --- a/old/11303-h/11303-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6910 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> -<html lang="en"> - -<head> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1"> -<title>George Moore (1852-1933): Vain Fortune (1895)</title> -<style type="text/css" title="Web"> -<!-- -/* -four classes used: -- image for the image containers -- pb page breaks -- caps capitalized text -- small-caps text in small-caps -*/ - -div.image - { - border: 2px solid #999; - padding: .5em; - float: none; - } - -div.image img - { - margin-right: .5em; - border: 2px solid #999; - float: left; - } - -.caps { text-transform: uppercase; } - -.small-caps { font-variant: small-caps; } - -br { clear: both; } ---> -</style> -</head> - -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Vain Fortune, by George Moore - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Vain Fortune - -Author: George Moore - -Release Date: June 7, 2004 [EBook #11303] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VAIN FORTUNE *** - - - - -Produced by Jon Ingram, Branko Collin and PG Distributed Proofreaders - - - - - -</pre> - - -<a name="001.png" class="pb"></a> - -<div class="image"><a href="images/image01.jpeg"><img src="images/image01-thumb.jpeg" -alt="[drawing]" align="left"></a> "She slipped on her knees, and -burst into a passionate fit of weeping."</div> - -<br> - -<a name="002.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h1><span class="caps">Vain Fortune</span></h1> - -<h2><span class="caps">A Novel</span></h2> - -<h3><span class="caps">By</span></h3> - -<h3><span class="caps">George Moore</span></h3> - -<h3><i><span class="caps">With Five Illustrations</span> By</i> <i><span -class="caps">Maurice Greiffenhagen</span></i></h3> <span class="caps">New -Edition</span> <span class="caps">Completely Revised</span> <span -class="caps">London: Walter Scott, Ltd.</span> <span -class="caps">Paternoster Square</span> 1895 - -<a name="003.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>Edinburgh: T. and A. <span class="small-caps">Constable</span>, Printers -to Her Majesty</p> - -<a id="pv"></a> - -<h2><span class="caps">Prefatory Note</span></h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">I hope</span> it will not seem presumptuous to -ask my critics to treat this new edition of <i>Vain Fortune</i> as a new -book: for it is a new book. The first edition was kindly noticed, but it -attracted little attention, and very rightly, for the story as told therein -was thin and insipid; and when Messrs. Scribner proposed to print the book -in America, I stipulated that I should be allowed to rewrite it. They -consented, and I began the story with Emily Watson, making her the -principal character instead of Hubert Price. Some months after I received a -letter from Madam Couperus, offering to translate the English edition into -Dutch. I sent her the American edition, and asked her which she would -prefer to translate from. Madam Couperus replied that many things in the -English edition, which she would like to retain, had been omitted from the -American edition, that the hundred or more pages <a id="pvi"></a> which I -had written for the American edition seemed to her equally worthy of -retention.</p> - -<p>She pointed out that, without the alteration of a sentence, the two -versions could be combined. The idea had not occurred to me; I saw, -however, that what she proposed was not only feasible but advantageous. I -wrote, therefore, giving her the required permission, and thanking her for -a suggestion which I should avail myself of when the time came for a new -English edition.</p> - -<p>The union of the texts was no doubt accomplished by Madam Couperus, -without the alteration of a sentence; but no such accomplished editing is -possible to me; I am a victim to the disease of rewriting, and the -inclusion of the hundred or more pages of new matter written for the -American edition led me into a third revision of the story. But no more -than in the second has the skeleton, or the attitude of the skeleton been -altered in this third version, only flesh and muscle have been added, and, -I think, a little life. <i>Vain Fortune</i>, even in its present form, is -probably <a id="pvii"></a> not my best book, but it certainly is far from -being my worst. But my opinion regarding my own work is of no value; I do -not write this Prefatory Note to express it, but to ask my critics and my -readers to forget the original <i>Vain Fortune</i>, and to read this new -book as if it were issued under another title.</p> - -<p>G.M.</p> - -<a name="007.png" class="pb"></a> - -<a name="008.png" class="pb"></a> - -<hr> - -<h2>I</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">The</span> lamp had not been wiped, and the -room smelt slightly of paraffin. The old window-curtains, whose harsh green -age had not softened, were drawn. The mahogany sideboard, the threadbare -carpet, the small horsehair sofa, the gilt mirror, standing on a white -marble chimney-piece, said clearly, 'Furnished apartments in a house built -about a hundred years ago.' There were piles of newspapers, there were -books on the mahogany sideboard and on the horsehair sofa, and on the table -there were various manuscripts,—<i>The Gipsy</i>, Act I.; <i>The -Gipsy</i>, Act III., Scenes iii. and iv.</p> - -<p>A sheet of foolscap paper, and upon it a long slender hand. The hand -traced a few lines of fine, beautiful caligraphy, then it paused, -correcting with extreme care <a name="009.png" class="pb"></a> what was -already written, and in a hesitating, minute way, telling of a brain that -delighted in the correction rather than in the creation of form.</p> - -<p>The shirt-cuff was frayed and dirty. The coat was thin and shiny. A -half-length figure of a man drew out of the massed shadows between the -window and sideboard. The red beard caught the light, and the wavy brown -hair brightened. Then a look of weariness, of distress, passed over the -face, and the man laid down the pen, and, taking some tobacco from a paper, -rolled a cigarette. Rising, and leaning forward, he lighted it over the -lamp. He was a man of about thirty—six feet, broad-shouldered, well-built, -healthy, almost handsome.</p> - -<p>The time he spent in dreaming his play amounted to six times, if not ten -times, as much as he devoted to trying to write it; and he now lit -cigarette after cigarette, abandoning himself to every meditation,—the -unpleasantness of life in lodgings, the charm of foreign travel, the beauty -of the south, what he would do if his play succeeded. He plunged into -calculation of the time it would take him to finish it if he were to sit at -home all day, working from seven to ten hours every day. If he could but -make up his mind concerning the beginning and the middle of the third act, -and <a name="010.png" class="pb"></a> about the end, too,—the -solution,—he felt sure that, with steady work, the play could be completed -in a fortnight. In such reverie and such consideration he lay immersed, -oblivious of the present moment, and did not stir from his chair until the -postman shook the frail walls with a violent double knock. He hoped for a -letter, for a newspaper—either would prove a welcome distraction. The -servant's footsteps on the stairs told him the post had brought him -something. His heart sank at the thought that it was probably only a bill, -and he glanced at all the bills lying one above another on the table.</p> - -<p>It was not a bill, nor yet an advertisement, but a copy of a weekly -review. He tore it open. An article about himself!</p> - -<p>After referring to the deplorable condition of the modern stage, the -writer pointed out how dramatic writing has of late years come to be -practised entirely by men who have failed in all other branches of -literature. Then he drew attention to the fact that signs of weariness and -dissatisfaction with the old stale stories, the familiar tricks in bringing -about 'striking situations,' were noticeable, not only in the newspaper -criticisms of new plays, but also among the better portion of the audience. -He admitted, however, that hitherto the attempts made by younger writers in -the <a name="011.png" class="pb"></a> direction of new subject-matter and -new treatment had met with little success. But this, he held, was not a -reason for discouragement. Did those who believed in the old formulas -imagine that the new formula would be discovered straight away, without -failures preliminary? Besides, these attempts were not utterly despicable; -at least one play written on the new lines had met with some measure of -success, and that play was Mr. Hubert Price's <i>Divorce</i>.</p> - -<p>'Yes, the fellow is right. The public is ready for a good play: it -wasn't when <i>Divorce</i> was given. I must finish <i>The Gipsy</i>. There -are good things in it; that I know. But I wish I could get that third act -right. The public will accept a masterpiece, but it will not accept an -attempt to write a masterpiece. But this time there'll be no falling off in -the last acts. The scene between the gipsy lover and the young lord will -fetch 'em.' Taking up the review, Hubert glanced over the article a second -time. 'How anxious the fellows are for me to achieve a success! How they -believe in me! They desire it more than I do. They believe in me more than -I do in myself. They want to applaud me. They are hungry for the -masterpiece.'</p> - -<p>At that moment his eye was caught by some letters written on blue paper. -His face resumed a wearied <a name="012.png" class="pb"></a> and hunted -expression. 'There's no doubt about it, money I must get somehow. I am -running it altogether too fine. There isn't twenty pounds between me and -the deep sea.'</p> - -<div> </div> <!-- pause --> - -<p>He was the son of the Rev. James Price, a Shropshire clergyman. The -family was of Welsh extraction, but in Hubert none of the physical -characteristics of the Celt appeared. He might have been selected as a -typical Anglo-Saxon. The face was long and pale, and he wore a short -reddish beard; the eyes were light blue, verging on grey, and they seemed -to speak a quiet, steadfast soul. Hubert had always been his mother's -favourite, and the scorn of his elder brothers, two rough boys, addicted in -early youth to robbing orchards, and later on to gambling and drinking. The -elder, after having broken his father's heart with debts and disgraceful -living, had gone out to the Cape. News of his death came to the Rectory -soon after; but James's death did not turn Henry from his evil courses, and -one day his father and mother had to go to London on his account, and they -brought him back a hopeless invalid. Hubert was twelve years of age when he -followed his brother to the grave.</p> - -<a name="013.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>It was at his brother's funeral that Hubert met for the first time his -uncle, Mr. Burnett. Mr. Burnett had spent the greater part of his life in -New Zealand, where he had made a large fortune by sheep-farming and -investments in land. He had seemed to be greatly taken with his nephew, and -for many years it was understood that he would leave him the greater part, -if not the whole, of his fortune. But Mr. Burnett had come under the -influence of some poor relations, some distant cousins, the Watsons, and -had eventually decided to adopt their daughter Emily and leave her his -fortune. He did not dare intimate his change of mind to his sister; but the -news having reached Mrs. Price in various rumours, she wrote to her brother -asking him to confirm or deny these rumours; and when he admitted their -truth, Mrs. Price never spoke to him again. She was a determined woman, and -the remembrance of the wrong done to her son never left her.</p> - -<p>While the other children had been a torment and disgrace, Hubert had -been to his parents a consolation and a blessing. They had feared that he -too might turn to betting and drink, but he had never shown sign of low -tastes. He played no games, nor did he care for terriers or horses; but for -books and drawing, <a name="014.png" class="pb"></a> and long country -walks. Immediately on hearing of his disinheritance he had spoken at once -of entering a profession; and for many months this was the subject of -consideration in the Rectory. Hubert joined in these discussions willingly, -but he could not bring himself to accept the army or the bar. It was indeed -only necessary to look at him to see that neither soldier's tunic nor -lawyer's wig was intended for him; and it was nearly as clear that those -earnest eyes, so intelligent and yet so undetermined in their gaze, were -not those of a doctor.</p> - -<p>But if his eyes failed to predict his future, his hands told the story -of his life distinctly enough—those long, white, languid hands, what could -they mean but art? And very soon Hubert began to draw, evincing some -natural aptitude. Then an artist came into the neighbourhood, the two -became friends, and went together on a long sketching tour. Life in the -open air, the shade of the hedge, the glare of the highway, the meditation -of the field, the languor of the river-side, the contemplation of wooded -horizons, was what Hubert's pastoral nature was most fitted to enjoy; and, -for the sake of the life it afforded him, he pursued the calling of a -landscape painter long after he had begun to feel his desire turning in -another direction. When <a name="015.png" class="pb"></a> the landscape on -the canvas seemed hopelessly inadequate, he laid aside the brush for the -pencil, and strove to interpret the summer fields in verse. From verse he -drifted into the article and the short story, and from the story into the -play. And it was in this last form that he felt himself strongest, and -various were the dramas and comedies that he dreamed from year's end to -year's end.</p> - -<p>While he was in the midst of his period of verse-writing his mother -died, and in the following year, just as he was working at his stories, he -received a telegram calling him to attend his father's death-bed. When the -old man was laid in the shadow of the weather-beaten village church, Hubert -gathered all his belongings and bade farewell for ever to the Shropshire -rectory.</p> - -<p>In London Hubert made few friends. There were some two or three men with -whom he was frequently seen—quiet folk like himself, whose enjoyment -consisted in smoking a tranquil pipe in the evening, or going for long -walks in the country. He was one of those men whose indefiniteness provokes -curiosity, and his friends noticed and wondered why it was that he was so -frequently the theme of their conversation. His simple, unaffected manners -were full of suggestion, <a name="016.png" class="pb"></a> and in his -writings there was always an indefinable rainbow-like promise of ultimate -achievement. So, long before he had succeeded in writing a play, detached -scenes and occasional verses led his friends into gradual belief that he -was one from whom big things might be expected. And when the one-act play -which they had all so heartily approved of was produced, and every -newspaper praised it for its literary quality, the friends took pride in -this public vindication of their opinion. After the production of his play -people came to see the new author, and every Saturday evening some fifteen -or twenty men used to assemble in Hubert's lodgings to drink whisky, smoke -cigars, and talk drama. Encouraged by his success, Hubert wrote -<i>Divorce</i>. He worked unceasingly upon it for more than a year, and -when he had written the final scene, he was breaking into his last hundred -pounds. The play was refused twice, and then accepted by a theatrical -speculator, to whom it seemed to afford opportunity for the exhibition of -the talents of a lady he was interested in.</p> - -<p>The success of the play was brief. But before it was withdrawn, Hubert -had sold the American rights for a handsome sum, and within the next two -years he had completed a second play, which he <a name="017.png" -class="pb"></a> called <i>An Ebbing Tide</i>. Some of the critics argued -that it contained scenes as fine as any in <i>Divorce</i>, but it was -admitted on all sides that the interest withered in the later acts. But the -failure of the play did not shake the established belief in Hubert's -genius; it merely concentrated the admiration of those interested in the -new art upon <i>Divorce</i>, the partial failure of which was now -attributed to the acting. If it had only been played at the Haymarket or -the Lyceum, it could not have failed.</p> - -<p>The next three years Hubert wasted in various aestheticisms. He -explained the difference between the romantic and realistic methods in the -reviews; he played with a poetic drama to be called <i>The King of the -Beggars</i>, and it was not until the close of the third year that he -settled down to definite work. Then all his energies were concentrated on a -new play—<i>The Gipsy</i>. A young woman of Bohemian origin is suddenly -taken with the nostalgia of the tent, and leaves her husband and her home -to wander with those of her race. He had read portions of this play to his -friends, who at last succeeded in driving Montague Ford, the popular -actor-manager, to Hubert's door; and after hearing some few scenes he had -offered a couple of hundred pounds in advance of fees <a name="018.png" -class="pb"></a> for the completed manuscript. 'But when can I have the -manuscript?' said Ford, as he was about to leave. 'As soon as I can finish -it,' Hubert replied, looking at him wistfully out of pale blue-grey eyes. -'I could finish it in a month, if I could count on not being worried by -duns or disturbed by friends during that time.'</p> - -<p>Ford looked at Hubert questioningly; then he said 'I have always noticed -that when a fellow wants to finish a play, the only way to do it is to go -away to the country and leave no address.'</p> - -<p>But the country was always so full of pleasure for him, that he doubted -his power to remain indoors with the temptation of fields and rivers before -his eyes, and he thought that to escape from dunning creditors it would be -sufficient to change his address. So he left Norfolk Street for the more -remote quarter of Fitzroy Street, where he took a couple of rooms on the -second floor. One of his fellow-lodgers, he soon found, was Rose Massey, an -actress engaged for the performance of small parts at the Queen's Theatre. -The first time he spoke to her was on the doorstep. She had forgotten her -latch-key, and he said, 'Will you allow me to let you in?' She stepped -aside, but did not answer him. Hubert thought her rude, but her strange -eyes <a name="019.png" class="pb"></a> and absent-minded manner had piqued -his curiosity, and, having nothing to do that night, he went to the theatre -to see her act. She was playing a very small part, and one that was -evidently unsuited to her—a part that was in contradiction to her nature; -but there was something behind the outer envelope which led him to believe -she had real talent, and would make a name for herself when she was given a -part that would allow her to reveal what was in her.</p> - -<p>In the meantime, Rose had been told that the gentleman she had snubbed -in the passage was Mr. Hubert Price, the author of <i>Divorce</i>.</p> - -<p>'Oh, it was very silly of me,' she said to Annie. 'If I had only -known!'</p> - -<p>'Lor', he don't mind; he'll be glad enough to speak to you when you -meets him again.'</p> - -<p>And when they met again on the stairs, Rose nodded familiarly, and -Hubert said—</p> - -<p>'I went to the Queen's the other night.'</p> - -<p>'Did you like the piece?'</p> - -<p>'I did not care about the piece; but when you get a wild, passionate -part to play, you'll make a hit. The sentimental parts they give you don't -suit you.'</p> - -<p>A sudden light came into the languid face. 'Yes, I shall do something if -I can get a part like that.'</p> - -<a name="020.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>Hubert told her that he was writing a play containing just such a -part.</p> - -<p>Her eyes brightened again. 'Will you read me the play?' she said, fixing -her dark, dreamy eyes on him.</p> - -<p>'I shall be very glad.... Do you think it won't bore you?' And his -wistful grey eyes were full of interrogation.</p> - -<p>'No, I'm sure it won't.'</p> - -<p>And a few days after she sent Annie with a note, reminding him of his -promise to read her what he had written. As she had only a bedroom, the -reading had to take place in his sitting-room. He read her the first and -second acts. She was all enthusiasm, and begged hard to be allowed to study -the part—just to see what she could do with it—just to let him see that -he was not mistaken in her. Her interest in his work captivated him, and he -couldn't refuse to lend her the manuscript.</p> - -<a name="021.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>II</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">Rose</span> often came to see Hubert in his -rooms. Her manner was disappointing, and he thought he must be mistaken in -his first judgment of her talents. But one afternoon she gave him a -recitation of the sleep-walking scene in <i>Macbeth</i>. It was strange to -see this little dark-complexioned, dark-eyed girl, the merest handful of -flesh and bone, divest herself at will of her personality, and assume the -tragic horror of Lady Macbeth, or the passionate rapture of Juliet -detaining her husband-lover on the balcony of her chamber. Hubert watched -in wonderment this girl, so weak and languid in her own nature, awaking -only to life when she assumed the personality of another. There she lay, -her wispy form stretched in his arm-chair, her great dark eyes fixed, her -mind at rest, sunk in some inscrutable dream. Her thin hand lay on the arm -of the chair: when she woke from her day-dream she burst into irresponsible -laughter, or questioned him with petulant curiosity. He looked again: her -dark curling <a name="022.png" class="pb"></a> hair hung on her swarthy -neck, and she was somewhat untidily dressed in blue linen.</p> - -<p>'Were you ever in love?' she said suddenly. 'I don't suppose you could -be; you are too occupied with your play. I don't know, though; you might be -in love, but I don't think that many women would be in love with you.... -You are too good a man, and women don't like good men.'</p> - -<p>Hubert laughed, and without a trace of offended vanity in his voice he -said, 'I don't profess to be much of a lady-killer.'</p> - -<p>'You don't know what I mean,' she said, looking at him fixedly, a maze -of half-childish, half-artistic curiosity in her handsome eyes.</p> - -<p>Perplexed in his shy, straightford nature, Hubert inquired if she took -sugar in her tea. She said she did; stretched her feet to the fire, and -lapsed into dream. She was one of the enigmas of Stageland. She supported -herself, and went about by herself, looking a poor, lost little thing. She -spoke with considerable freedom of language on all subjects, but no one had -been able to fix a lover upon her.</p> - -<p>'What a part Lady Hayward is! But tell me,—I don't quite catch your -meaning in the second act. Is this it?' and starting to her feet, she -became in a <a name="023.png" class="pb"></a> moment another being. With a -gesture, a look, an intonation, she was the woman of the play,—a woman -taken by an instinct, long submerged, but which has floated to the surface, -and is beginning to command her actions. In another moment she had slipped -back into her weary lymphatic nature, at once prematurely old and -extravagantly childish. She could not talk of indifferent things; and -having asked some strange questions, and laughed loudly, she wished Hubert -'Good-afternoon' in her curious, irresponsible fashion, taking her leave -abruptly.</p> - -<p>The next two days Hubert devoted entirely to his play. There were things -in it which he knew were good, but it was incomplete. Montague Ford would -not produce it in its present form. He must put his shoulder to the wheel -and get it right; one more push, that was all that was wanted. And he could -be heard walking to and fro, up and down, along and across his tiny -sitting-room, stopping suddenly to take a note of an idea that had occurred -to him.</p> - -<p>One day he went to Hampstead Heath. A long walk, he thought, would clear -his mind, and he returned home thinking of his play. The sunset still -glittering in the skies; the bare trees were beautifully distinct on the -blue background of the suburban street, <a name="024.png" class="pb"></a> -and at the end of the long perspective, a 'bus and a hansom could be seen -coming towards him. As they grew larger, his thoughts defined themselves, -and the distressing problem of his fourth act seemed to solve itself. That -very evening he would sketch out a new dramatic movement around which all -the other movements of the act would cluster. But at the corner of Fitzroy -Square, within a few yards of No. 17, he was accosted by a shabbily-dressed -man, who inquired if he were Mr. Price. On being answered in the -affirmative, the shabbily-dressed man said, 'Then I have something for ye; -I have been a-watching for ye for the last three days, but ye didn't come -out; missed yer this morning: 'ere it is;' and he thrust a folded paper -into Hubert's hand.</p> - -<p>'What is this?'</p> - -<p>'Don't yer know?' he said with a grin; 'Messrs. Tomkins & Co., -Tailors, writ—twenty-two pound odd.'</p> - -<p>Hubert made no answer; he put the paper in his pocket, opened the door -quietly, stole up to his room, and sat down to think. The first thing to do -was to examine into his finances. It was alarming to find that he was -breaking into his last five-pound note. True that he was close on the end -of his play, and when it was finished he would be able to draw on Ford. But -a <a name="025.png" class="pb"></a> summons to appear in the county court -could not fail to do him immense injury. He had heard of avoiding service, -but he knew little of the law, and wondered what power the service of the -writ gave his creditor over him. His instinct was to escape—hide himself -where they would not be able to find him, and so obtain time to finish his -play. But he owed his landlady money, and his departure would have to be -clandestine. As he reflected on how many necessaries he might carry away in -a newspaper, he began to feel strangely like a criminal, and while rolling -up a couple of shirts, a few pairs of socks, and some collars, he paused, -his hands resting on the parcel. He did not seem to know himself, and it -was difficult to believe that he really intended to leave the house in this -disreputable fashion. Mechanically he continued to add to his parcel, -thinking all the while that he must go, otherwise his play would never be -written.</p> - -<p>He had been working very well for the last few days, and now he saw his -way quite clearly; the inspiration he had been so long waiting for had come -at last, and he felt sure of his fourth act. At the same time he wished to -conduct himself honestly, even in this distressing situation. Should he -tell his landlady the truth? But the desire to realise his idea was -intolerable, <a name="026.png" class="pb"></a> and, yielding as if before -an irresistible force, he tied the parcel and prepared to go. At that -moment he remembered that he must leave a note for his landlady, and he was -more than ever surprised at the naturalness with which lying phrases came -into his head. But when it came to committing them to paper, he found he -could not tell an absolute lie, and he wrote a simple little note to the -effect that he had been called away on urgent business, and hoped to return -in about a week.</p> - -<p>He descended the stairs softly. Mrs. Wilson's sitting-room opened on to -the passage; she might step out at any moment, and intercept his exit. He -had nearly reached the last flight when he remembered that he had forgotten -his manuscripts. His flesh turned cold, his heart stood still. There was -nothing for it but to ascend those creaking stairs again. His already -heavily encumbered pockets could not be persuaded to receive more than a -small portion of the manuscripts. He gathered them in his hand, and -prepared to redescend the perilous stairs. He walked as lightly as -possible, dreading that every creak would bring Mrs. Wilson from her -parlour. A few more steps, and he would be in the passage. A smell of dust, -sounds of children crying, children talking in the kitchen! A few more -steps, and, with his eyes on the parlour door, <a name="027.png" -class="pb"></a> Hubert had reached the rug at the foot of the stairs. He -hastened along, the passage. Mrs. Wilson was a moment too late. His hand -was on the street-door when she appeared at the door of her parlour.</p> - -<p>'Mr. Price, I want to speak to you before you go out. There has——'</p> - -<p>'I can't wait—running to catch a train. You'll find a letter on my -table. It will explain.'</p> - -<p>Hubert slipped out, closed the door, and ran down the street, and it was -not until he had put two or three streets between him and Fitzroy Street -that he relaxed his pace, and could look behind him without dreading to -feel the hand of the 'writter' upon his shoulder.</p> - -<a name="028.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>III</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">Then</span> he wandered, not knowing where he -was going, still in the sensation of his escape, a little amused, and yet -with a shadow of fear upon his soul, for he grew more and more conscious of -the fact that he was homeless, if not quite penniless. Suddenly he stopped -walking. Night was thickening in the street, and he had to decide where he -would sleep. He could not afford to pay more than five or six shillings a -week for a room, and he thought of Holloway, as being a neighbourhood where -creditors would not be able to find him. So he retraced his steps, and, -tired and footsore, entered the Tottenham Court Road by the Oxford Street -end.</p> - -<p>There the omnibuses stopped. A conductor shouted for fares, with the -light of the public-house lamps on his open mouth. There was smell of mud, -of damp clothes, of bad tobacco, and where the lights of the costermongers' -barrows broke across the footway the picture was of a group of three -coarse, loud-voiced girls, <a name="029.png" class="pb"></a> followed by -boys. There were fish shops, cheap Italian restaurants, and the long lines -of low houses vanished in crapulent night. The characteristics of the -Tottenham Court Road impressed themselves on Hubert's mind, and he thought -how he would have to bear for at least three weeks with all the grime of -its poverty. It would take about that time to finish his play, and the -neighbourhood would suit his purpose excellently well. So long as he did -not pass beyond it he ran little risk of discovery, and to secure himself -against friends and foes he penetrated farther northward, not stopping till -he reached the confines of Holloway.</p> - -<p>Then a little dim street caught his eye, and he knocked at the door of -the first house exhibiting a card in the parlour window. But they did not -let their bedroom under seven shillings, and this seemed to Hubert to be an -extravagant price. He tried farther on, and at last found a clean room for -six shillings. Having no luggage, he paid a week's rent in advance, and the -landlady promised to get him a small table, on which he could write, a -small table that would fit in somewhere near the window. She asked him when -he would like to be called, and put the candlestick on the chair. Hubert -looked round the room, and a moment sufficed to complete the survey. It was -about seven <a name="030.png" class="pb"></a> feet long. The lower half of -the window was curtained by a piece of muslin hardly bigger than a -good-sized pocket-handkerchief; to do anything in this room except to lie -in bed seemed difficult, and Hubert sat down on the bed and emptied out his -pockets. He had just four pounds, and the calculation how long he could -live on such a sum took him some time. His breakfast, whether he had it at -home or in the coffee-house, would cost him at least fourpence. He thought -he would be able to obtain a fairly good dinner in one of the little -Italian restaurants for ninepence. His tea would cost the same as his -breakfast. To these sums he must add twopence for tobacco and a penny for -an evening paper—impossible to do without tobacco, and he must know what -was going on in the world. He could therefore live for one shilling and -eightpence a day—eleven shillings a week—to which he would have to add -six shillings a week for rent, altogether seventeen shillings a week. He -really did not see how he could do it cheaper. Four times seventeen are -sixty-eight; sixty-eight shillings for a month of life, and he had eighty -shillings—twelve shillings for incidental expenses; and out of that twelve -shillings he must buy a shirt, a sponge, and a tooth brush, and when they -were bought there would be very little left. He must finish his <a -name="031.png" class="pb"></a> play under the month. Nothing could be -clearer than that.</p> - -<p>Next morning he asked the landlady to let him have a cup of tea and some -bread and butter, and he ate as much bread as he could, to save himself -from being hungry in the middle of the day. He began work immediately, and -continued until seven, and feeling then somewhat light-headed, but -satisfied with himself, went to the nearest Italian restaurant. The food -was better than he expected; but he spent twopence more than he had -intended, so, to accustom himself to a life of strict measure and -discipline, he determined to forego his tea that evening. And so he lived -and worked until the end of the week.</p> - -<p>But the situation he had counted on to complete his fourth act had -proved almost impracticable in the working out; he laboured on, however, -and at the end of the tenth day at least one scene satisfied him. He read -it over slowly, carefully, thought about it, decided that it was excellent, -and lay down on his bed to consider it. At that moment it struck him that -he had better calculate how much he had spent in the last ten days. He -gathered himself into a sitting posture and counted his money; he had spent -thirty shillings, and at that rate his money would not hold out till the -end <a name="032.png" class="pb"></a> of the month. He must reduce his -expenditure; but how? Impossible to find a room where he could live more -cheaply than in the one he had got, and it is not easy to dine in London on -less than ninepence. Only the poor can live cheaply. He pressed his hands -to his face. His head seemed like splitting, and his monetary difficulty, -united with his literary difficulties, produced a momentary insanity. Work -that morning was impossible, so he went out to study the eating-houses of -the neighbourhood. He must find one where he could dine for sixpence. Or he -might buy a pound of cooked beef and take it home with him in a paper bag; -but that would seem an almost intolerable imprisonment in his little room. -He could go to a public-house and dine off a sausage and potato. But at -that moment his attention was caught by black letters on a dun, yellowish -ground: 'Lockhart's Cocoa Rooms.' Not having breakfasted, he decided to -have a cup of cocoa and a roll.</p> - -<p>It was a large, barn-like place, the walls covered with a coat of -grey-blue paint. Under the window there was a zinc counter, with zinc urns -always steaming, emiting odours of tea, coffee, and cocoa. The seats were -like those which give a garden-like appearance to the tops of some -omnibuses. Each was made to hold <a name="033.png" class="pb"></a> two -persons, and the table between them was large enough for four plates and -four pairs of hands. A few hollow-chested men, the pale vagrants of -civilisation, drowsed in the corners. They had been hunted through the -night by the policeman, and had come in for something hot. Hubert noted the -worn frock-coats, and the miserable arms coming out of shirtless sleeves. -One looked up inquiringly, and Hubert thought how slight had become the -line that divided him from the outcast. A serving-maid collected the -plates, knives and forks, when the customers left, and carried them back to -the great zinc counter.</p> - -<p>Impressed by his appearance, she brought him what he had ordered and -took the money for it, although the custom of the place was for the -customer to pay for food at the counter and carry it himself to the table -at which he chose to eat. Hubert learnt that there was no set dinner, but -there was a beef-steak pudding at one, price fourpence, a penny potatoes, a -penny bread. So by dining at Lockhart's he would be able to cut down his -daily expense by at least twopence; that would extend the time to finish -his play by nearly a week. And if his appetite were not keen, he could -assuage it with a penny plum pudding; or he could take a middle course, -making his dinner off a sausage <a name="034.png" class="pb"></a> and -mashed potatoes. The room was clean, well lighted, and airy; he could read -his paper there, and forget his troubles in the observation of character. -He even made friends. An old wizen creature, who had been a prize-fighter, -told him of his triumphs. If he hadn't broke his hand on somebody's nose -he'd have been champion light-weight of England. 'And to think that I have -come to this,' he added emphatically. 'Even them boys knock me about now, -and 'alf a century ago I could 'ave cleared the bloomin' place.' There was -a merry little waif from the circus who loved to come and sit with Hubert. -She had been a rider, she said, but had broken her leg on one occasion, and -cut her head all open on another, and had ended by running away with some -one who had deserted her. 'So here I am,' she remarked, with a burst of -laughter, 'talking to you. Did you never hear of Dolly Dayrell?' Hubert -confessed that he had not. 'Why,' she said, 'I thought every one had.'</p> - -<p>About eight o'clock in the evening, the table near the stairs was -generally occupied by flower-girls, dressed in dingy clothes, and brightly -feathered hats. They placed their empty baskets on the floor, and shouted -at their companions—men who sold newspapers, boot-laces, and cheap toys. -About nine the boys came in, <a name="035.png" class="pb"></a> the boys who -used to push the old prize-fighter about, and Hubert soon began to perceive -how representative they were of all vices—gambling, theft, idleness, and -cruelty were visible in their faces. They were led by a Jew boy who sold -penny jewellery at the corner of Oxford Street, and they generally made for -the tables at the end of the room, for there, unless custom was slack -indeed, they could defeat the vigilance of the serving-maid and play at nap -at their ease. The tray of penny jewellery was placed at the corner of a -table, and a small boy set to watch over it. His duty was also to shuffle -his feet when the servant-maid approached, and a precious drubbing he got -if he failed to shuffle them loud enough. The ''ot un,' as he was -nicknamed, always had a pack of cards in his pocket, and to annex -everything left on the tables he considered to be his privilege. One day, -when he was asked how he came by the fine carnation in his buttonhole, he -said it was a present from Sally, neglecting to add that he had told the -child to steal it from a basket which a flower-girl had just put down.</p> - -<a name="036.png" class="pb"></a> - -<div class="image"><a href="images/image02.jpeg"><img src="images/image02-thumb.jpeg" -align="left" alt="[drawing]"></a> - -"'A dirty, hignominious lot, them boys is.'"</div> - -<br> - -<a name="037.png" class="pb"></a> - -<a name="038.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>Hubert hated this boy, and once could not resist boxing his ears. The -''ot un' writhed easily out of his reach, and then assailed him with foul -language, and so loud were his words that they awoke the innocent cause of -the quarrel, a weak, sickly-looking man, with pale blue eyes and a blonde -beard. Hubert had protected him before now against the brutality of the -boys, who, when they were not playing nap, divided their pleasantries -between him and the decrepit prize-fighter. He came in about nine, took a -cup of coffee from the counter, and settled himself for a snooze. The boys -knew this, and it was their amusement to keep him awake by pelting him with -egg-shells and other missiles. Hubert noticed that he had always with him a -red handkerchief full of some sort of loose rubbish, which the boys -gathered when it fell about the floor, or purloined from the handkerchief -when they judged that the owner was sufficiently fast asleep. Hubert now -saw that the handkerchief was filled with bits of coloured chalk, and -guessed that the man must be a pavement artist.</p> - -<p>'A dirty, hignominious lot, them boys is,' said the artist, fixing his -pale, melancholy eyes on Hubert; 'bad manners, no eddication, and, above -all, no respect.'</p> - -<p>'They are an unmannerly lot—that Jew boy especially. I don't think -there's a vice he hasn't got.'</p> - -<p>The artist stared at Hubert a long time in silence. A thought seemed to -be stirring in his mind.</p> - -<p>'I'm speaking, I can see, to a man of eddication. <a name="039.png" -class="pb"></a> I'm a fust-rate judge of character, though I be but a -pavement artist; but a picture's none the less a picture, no matter where -it is drawn. That's true, ain't it?'</p> - -<p>'Quite true. A horse is a horse, and an ass is an ass, no matter what -stable you put them into.'</p> - -<p>The artist laughed a guttural laugh, and, fixing his pale blue porcelain -eyes on Hubert, he said—</p> - -<p>'Yes; see I made no bloomin' error when I said you was a man of -eddication. A literary gent, I should think. In the reporting line, most -like. Down in the luck like myself. What was it—drink? Got the chuck?'</p> - -<p>'No,' said Hubert, 'never touch it. Out of work.'</p> - -<p>'No offence, master, we're all mortal, we is all weak, and in misfortune -we goes to it. It was them boys that drove me to it.'</p> - -<p>'How was that?'</p> - -<p>'They was always round my show; no getting rid of them, and their -remarks created a disturbance; the perlice said he wouldn't 'ave it, and -when the perlice won't 'ave it, what's a poor man to do? They are that -hignorant. But what's the use of talking of it, it only riles me.' The -blue-eyed man lay back in his seat, and his head sank on his chest. He -looked as if he were going to sleep again, but on Hubert's asking him to -explain his troubles, he leaned across the table.</p> - -<a name="040.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Well, I'll tell yer. Yer be an eddicated man, and I likes to talk to -them that 'as 'ad an eddication. Yer says, and werry truly, just now, that -changing the stable don't change an 'orse into a hass, or a hass into an -'orse. That is werry true, most true, none but a eddicated man could 'ave -made that 'ere hobservation. I likes yer for it. Give us yer 'and. The -public just thinks too much of the stable, and not enough of what's inside. -Leastways that's my experience of the public, and I 'ave been a-catering -for the public ever since I was a growing lad—sides of bacon, ships on -fire, good old ship on fire.... I knows the public. Yer don't follow -me?'</p> - -<p>'Not quite.'</p> - -<p>'A moment, and I'll explain. You'll admit there's no blooming reason -except the public's blooming hignorance why a man shouldn't do as good a -picture on the pavement as on a piece of canvas, provided he 'ave the -blooming genius. There is no doubt that with them 'ere chalks and a nice -smooth stone that Raphael—I 'ave been to the National Gallery and 'ave -studied 'is work, and werry fine some of it is, although I don't altogether -hold—but that's another matter. What was I a-saying of? I remember,—that -with them 'ere chalks, and a nice smooth stone, there's no reason why <a -name="041.png" class="pb"></a> a masterpiece shouldn't be done. That's -right, ain't it? I ask you, as a man of eddication, to say if that ain't -right; as a representative of the Press, I asks you to say.' Hubert nodded, -and the pale-eyed man continued. 'Well, that's what the public won't see, -can't see. Raphael, says I, could 'ave done a masterpiece with them 'ere -chalks and a nice smooth stone. But do yer think 'e 'd 'ave been allowed? -Do yer think the perlice would 'ave stood it? Do yer think the public would -'ave stood him doing masterpieces on the pavement? I'd give 'im just one -afternoon. Them boys would 'ave got 'im into trouble, just as they did me. -Raphael would 'ave been told to wipe them out just as I was.'</p> - -<p>The conversation paused; and, half amused, half frightened, Hubert -considered the pale vague face, and he was struck by the scattered look of -aspiration that wandered in the pale blue eyes.</p> - -<p>'I'll tell you,' said the man, growing more excited, and leaning further -across the table; 'I'll tell you, because I knows you for an eddicated man, -and won't blab. S'pose yer thinks, like the rest of the world, that the -chaps wot smears, for it ain't drawing, the pavement with bits of bacon, a -ship on fire, and the regulation oysters, does them out of their own -'eads?' Hubert nodded. 'I'm not surprised that you do, all the world do, -and <a name="042.png" class="pb"></a> the public chucks down its coppers to -the poor hartist; but 'e aint no hartist, no more than is them 'ere boys -that did for my show.' Leaning still further forward, he lowered his voice -to a whisper. 'They learns it all by 'art; there is schools for the -teaching of it down in Whitechapel. They can just do what they learns by -'art, not one of them could draw that 'ere chair or table from natur'; but -I could. I 'ave an original talent. It was a long time afore I found out it -was there,' he said, tapping his forehead; 'but it is there,' he said, -fixing his eyes on Hubert, 'and when it is there they can't take it away—I -mean my mates—though they do laugh at my ideas. They call me "the genius," -for they don't believe in me, but I believe in myself, and they laughs best -that laughs last.... I don't know,' he said, looking round him, his eyes -full of reverie, 'that the public liked my fancy landscapes better than the -ship on fire, but I said the public will come to them in time, and I -continued my fancy landscapes. But one day in Trafalgar Square it came on -to rain very 'eavy, and I went for shelter into the National Gallery. It -was my fust visit, and I was struck all of a 'eap, and ever since I can -'ardly bring myself to go on with the drudgery of the piece of bacon, and -the piece of cheese, with the mouse nibbling at it. And ever since my <a -name="043.png" class="pb"></a> 'ead 'as been filled with other things, -though for a long time I could not make exactly out what. I 'ave 'eard that -that is always the case with men that 'as an idea—daresay you 'ave found -it so yourself. So in my spare time I goes to the National to think it out, -and in studying the pictures there I got wery interested in a chap called -Hetty, and 'e do paint the female form divine. I says to myself, Why not go -in for lovely woman? the public may not care for fancy landscapes, but the -public allus likes a lovely woman, and, as well as being popular, lovely -woman is 'igh 'art. So, after dinner hour, I sets to work, and sketches in -a blue sea with three bathers, and two boxes, with the 'orse's head looking -out from behind one of the boxes. For a fust attempt at the nude, I assure -you—it ain't my way to blow my own trumpet, but I can say that the crowd -that 'ere picture did draw was bigger than any that 'ad assembled about the -bits o' bacon and ship-a-fire of all the other coves. 'Ad I been let alone, -I should 'ave made my fortune, but the crowd was so big and the curiosity -so great that it took the perlice all their time to keep the pavement from -being blocked. It wasn't that the public didn't like it enough, it was that -the public liked it too much, that was the reason of my misfortune.'</p> - -<a name="044.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'What do you mean?' said Hubert.</p> - -<p>'Well, yer see them boys was a-hawking their cheap toys in the -neighbourhood, and when they got wind of my success they comes round to -see, and they remains on account of the crowd. Pockets was picked, I don't -say they wasn't, and the perlice turned rusty, and then a pious old gent -comes along, and 'earing the remarks of them boys, which I admit wasn't -nice, complains to the hauthorities, and I was put down! Now, what I wants -to know is why my art should be made to suffer for the beastly-mindedness -of them 'ere boys.'</p> - -<p>Hubert admitted that there seemed to be an injustice somewhere, and -asked the artist if he had never tried again.</p> - -<p>'Try again? Should think I did. When once a man 'as tasted of 'igh art, -he can't keep his blooming fingers out of it. It was impossible after the -success of my bathers to go back to the bacon, so I thought I would -circumvent the hauthorities. I goes to the National Gallery, makes a -sketch, 'ere it is,' and after some fumbling in his breast pocket, he -produced a greasy piece of paper, which he handed to Hubert. 'S'pose yer -know the picture?' Hubert admitted that he did not. 'Well, that is a -drawing from Gainsborough's celebrated picture of Medora a-washing of <a -name="045.png" class="pb"></a> her feet.... But the perlice wouldn't 'ave -it any more than my original, 'e said it was worse than the bathers at -Margaret, and when I told the hignorant brute wot it was, 'e said he wanted -no hargument, that 'e wouldn't 'ave it.'</p> - -<p>Hubert had noticed, during the latter part of the narrative, a look of -dubious cunning twinkling in the pale eyes; but now this look died away, -and the eyes resumed their habitual look of vague reverie.</p> - -<p>'I've been 'ad up before the Beak: from him I expected more -enlightenment, but he, too, said 'e wouldn't 'ave it, and I got a month. -But I'll beat them yet, the public is on my side, and if it worn't for them -'ere boys, I'd say that the public could be helevated. They calls me "the -genius," and they is right.' Then something seemed to go out like a flame, -the face grew dim, and changed expression. 'It is 'ere all right,' he said, -no longer addressing Hubert, but speaking to himself, 'and since it is -there, it must come out.'</p> - -<a name="046.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>IV</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">Hubert</span> at last found himself obliged to -write to Ford for an advance of money. But Ford replied that he would -advance money only on the delivery of the completed manuscript. And the -whole of one night, in a room hardly eight feet long, sitting on his bed, -he strove to complete the fourth and fifth acts. But under the pressure of -such necessity ideas died within him. And all through the night, and even -when the little window, curtained with a bit of muslin hardly bigger than a -pocket-handkerchief, had grown white with dawn, he sat gazing at the sheet -of paper, his brain on fire, unable to think. Laying his pen down in -despair, he thought of the thousands who would come to his aid if they only -knew—if they only knew! And soon after he heard life beginning again in -the little brick street. He felt that his brain was giving way, that if he -did not find change, whatever it was, he must surely run raving mad. He had -had enough of England, and would leave it for America, Australia<a -name="047.png" class="pb"></a>—anywhere. He wanted change. The present was -unendurable. How would he get to America? Perhaps a clerkship on board one -of the great steamships might be obtained.</p> - -<p>The human animal in extreme misery becomes self-reliant, and Hubert -hardly thought of making application to his uncle. The last time he had -applied for help his letter had remained unanswered, and he now felt that -he must make his own living or die. And, quite indifferent as to what might -befall him, he walked next day to the Victoria Docks. He did not know where -or how to apply for work, and he tired himself in fruitless endeavour. At -last he felt he could strive with fate no longer, and wandered mile after -mile, amused and forgetful of his own misery in the spectacle of the -river—the rose sky, the long perspectives, the houses and warehouses -showing in fine outline, and then the wonderful blue night gathering in the -forest of masts and rigging. He was admirably patient. There was no -fretfulness in his soul, nor did he rail against the world's injustice, but -took his misfortunes with sweet gentleness.</p> - -<p>He slept in a public-house, and next day resumed his idle search for -employment. The weather was mild and beautiful, his wants were simple, a -cup of coffee <a name="048.png" class="pb"></a> and a roll, a couple of -sausages, and the day passed in a sort of morose and passionless -contemplation. He thought of everything and nothing, least of all of how he -should find money for the morrow. When the day came, and the penny to buy a -cup of coffee was wanting, he quite naturally, without giving it a second -thought, engaged himself as a labourer, and worked all day carrying sacks -of grain out of a vessel's hold. For a large part of his nature was patient -and simple, docile as an animal's. There was in him so much that was -rudimentary, that in accepting this burden of physical toil he was acting -not in contradiction to, but in full and perfect harmony with, his true -nature.</p> - -<p>But at the end of a week his health began to give way, and, like a man -after a violent debauch, he thought of returning to a more normal -existence. He had left the manuscript of his unfortunate play in the North. -Had they destroyed it? The involuntary fear of the writer for his child -made him smile. What did it matter? Clearly the first thing to do would be -to write to the editor of <i>The Cosmopolitan</i>, and ask if he could find -him some employment, something certain; writing occasional articles for -newspapers, that he couldn't do.</p> <a name="049.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>Hubert had saved twelve shillings. He would therefore be able to pay his -landlady: he smiled—one of his landladies! The earlier debt was now -hopelessly out of his reach, and seemed to represent a social plane from -which he had for ever fallen. If he had succeeded in getting that play -right, what a difference it would have made! He would have been able to do -a number of things he had never done, things which he had always desired to -do. He had desired above all to travel—to see France and Italy; to linger, -to muse in the shadows of the world's past; and after this he had desired -marriage, an English wife, an English home, beautiful children, leisure, -the society of friends. A successful play would have given him all these -things, and now his dream must remain for ever unrealised by him. He had -sunk out of sight and hearing of such life.</p> - -<p>Rose was another; she might sink as he had sunk; she might never find -the opportunity of realising her desire. How well she would have played -that part! He knew what was in her. And now! What did his failure to write -that play condemn him to? Heaven only knows, he did not wish to think. -Strange, was it not strange?... A man of genius—many believed him a -genius—and yet he was incapable of earning his <a name="050.png" -class="pb"></a> daily bread otherwise than by doing the work of a navvy. -Even that he could not do well, society had softened his muscles and -effeminised his constitution. Indeed, he did not know what life fate had -willed him for. He seemed to be out of place everywhere. His best chance -was to try to obtain a clerkship. The editor of <i>The Cosmopolitan</i> -might be able to do that for him; if he could not, far better it would be -to leave a world in which he was <i>out of place</i>, and through no fault -of his own—that was the hard part of it. Hard part! Nonsense! What does -Fate know of our little rights and wrongs—or care? Her intentions are -inscrutable; she watches us come and go, and gives no sign. Prayers are -vain. The good man is punished, and the wicked is sent on his way -rejoicing.</p> - -<p>In such mournful thought, his clothes stained and torn, with all the -traces of a week's toil in the docks upon them, Hubert made his way round -St. Paul's and across Holborn. As he was about to cross into Oxford Street, -he heard some one accost him,—</p> - -<p>'Oh, Mr. Price, is that you?' It was Rose. 'Where have you been all this -time?'</p> - -<p>She seemed so strange, so small, and so much alone in the great -thoroughfare, that Hubert forgot all his own troubles in a sudden interest -in this little mite. <a name="051.png" class="pb"></a> 'Where have you been -hiding yourself?... It is lucky I met you. Don't you know that Ford has -decided to revive <i>Divorce</i>?'</p> - -<p>'You don't mean it!'</p> - -<p>'Yes; Ford said that the last acts of <i>The Gipsy</i> were not -satisfactorily worked out, and as there was something wrong with that -Hamilton Brown's piece, he has decided to revive <i>Divorce</i>. He says it -never was properly played ... he thinks he'll make a hit in the husband's -part, and I daresay he will. But I have been unfortunate again; I wanted -the part of the adventuress. I really could play it. I don't look it, I -know ... I have no weight, but I could play it for all that. The public -mightn't see me in it at first, but in five minutes they would.'</p> - -<p>'And what part has he cast you for—the young girl?'</p> - -<p>'Of course; there's no other part. He says I look it; but what's the -good of looking it when you don't feel it? If he had cast me for Mrs. -Barrington, I should have had just the five minutes in the second act that -I have been waiting for so long, and I should have just wiped Miss Osborne -out, acted her off the stage.... I know I should; you needn't believe it if -don't like, but I know I should.'</p> - -<a name="052.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>Hubert wondered how any one could feel so sure of herself, and then he -said, 'Yes, I think you could do just what you say.... How do you think -Miss Osborne will play the part?'</p> - -<p>'She'll be correct enough; she'll miss nothing, and yet somehow she'll -miss the whole thing. But you must go at once to Ford. He was saying only -this morning that if you didn't turn up soon, he'd have to give up the -idea.'</p> - -<p>'I can't go and see him to-night. You see what a state I'm in.'</p> - -<p>'You're rather dusty; where have you been? what have you been -doing?'</p> - -<p>'I've been down at the dock.... I thought of going to America.'</p> - -<p>'Well, we'll talk about that another time. It doesn't matter if you are -a bit dusty and worn-out-looking. Now that he's going to revive your play, -he'll let you have some money. You might get a new hat, though. I don't -know how much they cost, but I've five shillings; can you get one for -that?'</p> - -<p>Hubert thanked her.</p> - -<p>'But you are not offended?'</p> - -<p>'Offended, my dear Rose! I shall be able to manage. I'll get a brush up -somewhere.'</p> - -<a name="053.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'That's all right. Now I'm going to jump into that 'bus,' and she signed -with her parasol to the conductor. 'Mind you see Ford to-night,' she cried; -and a moment after he saw a small space of blue back seated against one of -the windows.</p> - -<a name="054.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>V</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">There</span> was much prophecy abroad. -Stiggins' words, 'The piece never did, and never will draw money,' were -evidently present in everybody's mind. They were visible in Ford's face, -and more than once Hubert expected to hear that—on account of severe -indisposition—Mr. Montague Ford has been obliged to indefinitely postpone -his contemplated revival of Mr. Hubert Price's play <i>Divorce</i>. But, -besides the apprehension that Stiggins' unfavourable opinion of his -enterprise had engendered in him, Ford was obviously provoked by Hubert's -reluctance to execute the alterations he had suggested. Night after night, -sometimes until six in the morning, Hubert sat up considering them. Thanks -to Ford's timely advance he was back in his old rooms in Fitzroy Street. -All was as it had been. He was working at his play every evening, waiting -for Rose's footsteps on the stairs. And yet a change had come into his -life! He believed now that his feet were set on the way to fortune—that he -would soon be happy.</p> - -<a name="055.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>He stared at the bright flame of the lamp, he listened to the silence. -The clock chimed sharply, and the windows were growing grey. Hubert had -begun to drowse in his chair; but he had promised to rewrite the young -girl's part, Ford having definitely refused to intrust Rose with the part -of the adventuress. He was sorry for this. He believed that Rose had not -only talent, but genius. Besides, they were friends, neighbours; he would -like to give her a chance of distinguishing herself—the chance which she -was seeking. All the time he could not but realise that, however he might -accentuate and characterise the part of the sentimental girl, Rose would -not be able to do much with it. To bring out her special powers something -strange, wild, or tragic was required. But of what use thinking of what was -not to be? Having made some alterations and additions he folded his papers -up, and addressed them to Miss Massey. He wrote on a piece of paper that -they were to be given to her at once, and that he was to be called at ten. -There was a rehearsal at twelve.</p> - -<p>On the night of the first performance, Hubert asked Rose to dine in his -rooms. Mr. Wilson proposed that they should have a roast chicken, and Annie -was sent to fetch a bottle of champagne from the <a name="056.png" -class="pb"></a> grocer's. Annie had been given a ticket for the pit. Mrs. -Wilson was going to the upper boxes. Annie said,—</p> - -<p>'Why, you look as if you was going to a funeral, and not to a play. Why -don't ye laugh?'</p> - -<p>In truth, Hubert and Rose were a little silent. Rose was thinking how -she could say certain lines. She had said them right once at rehearsal, but -had not since been able to reproduce to her satisfaction a certain effect -of voice. Hubert was too nervous to talk. There was nothing in his mind but -'Will the piece succeed? What shall I do if it fails?' He could give heed -to nothing but himself, all the world seemed blotted out, and he suffered -the pain of excessive self-concentration. Rose, on the other hand, had lost -sight of herself, and existed almost unconsciously in the soul of another -being. She was sometimes like a hypnotised spectator watching with foolish, -involuntary curiosity the actions of one whom she had been bidden to watch. -Then a little cloud would gather over her eyes, and then this other being -would rise as if out of her very entrails and recreate her, fashioning her -to its own image and likeness.</p> - -<p>She did not answer when she was spoken to, and <a name="057.png" -class="pb"></a> when the question was repeated, she awoke with a little -start. Dinner was eaten in morbid silence, with painful and fitful efforts -to appear interested in each other. Walking to the theatre, they once took -the wrong turning and had to ask the way. At the stage door they smiled -painfully, nodded, glad to part. Hubert went up to Montague Ford's room. He -found the comedian on a low stool, seated before a low table covered with -brushes and cosmetics, in front of a triple glass.</p> - -<p>'My dear friend, do not trouble me now. I am thinking of my part.'</p> - -<p>Hubert turned to go.</p> - -<p>'Stay a moment,' cried the actor. 'You know when the husband meets the -wife he has divorced?'</p> - -<p>Hubert remembered the moment referred to, and, with anxious, doubting -eyes, the comedian sought from the author justification for some -intonations and gestures which seemed to him to form part and parcel of the -nature of the man whose drunkenness he had so admirably depicted on his -face.</p> - -<p>'"<i>This is most unfortunate, very unlucky—very, my dear Louisa; -but——</i>"</p> - -<p>'"<i>I am no longer obliged to bear with your insults; I can now defend -myself against you.</i>"</p> - -<a name="058.png" class="pb"></a> - -<div class="image"><a href="images/image03.jpeg"><img src="images/image03-thumb.jpeg" -align="left" alt="[drawing]"></a> - -"In the third row Harding stood talking to a young man." </div> - -<br> - -<a name="059.png" class="pb"></a> - -<a name="060.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Now, is that your idea of the scene?'</p> - -<p>A pained look came upon Hubert's face. 'Don't question me now, my dear -fellow. I cannot fix my attention. I can see, however, that your make-up is -capital—you are the man himself.'</p> - -<p>The actor was satisfied, and in his satisfaction he said, 'I think it -will be all right, old chap.'</p> - -<p>Hubert hoped to reach his box without meeting critics or authors. The -serving-maids bowed and smiled,—he was the author of the play. 'They'll -think still more of me if the notices are right,' he thought, as he hurried -upstairs, and from behind the curtain of his box he peeped down and counted -the critics who edged their way down the stalls. Harding stood in the third -row talking to a young man. He said, 'You mean the woman with the black -hair piled into a point, and fastened with a steel circlet. A face of -sheep-like sensuality. Red lips and a round receding chin. A large bosom, -and two thin arms showing beneath the opera cloak, which she has not yet -thrown from her shoulders. I do not know her—<i>une laideur attirante</i>. -Many a man might be interested in her. But do you see the woman in the -stage-box? You would not believe it, but she is sixty, and has only just -begun to speak of herself as an <a name="061.png" class="pb"></a> old -woman. She kept her figure, and had an admirer when she was -fifty-eight.'</p> - -<p>'What has become of him?'</p> - -<p>'They quarrelled; two years ago he told her he hoped never to see her -ugly old face again. And that delicate little creature in the box next to -her—that pale diaphanous face?'</p> - -<p>'With a young man hanging over her whispering in her ear?'</p> - -<p>'Yes. She hates the theatre; it gives her neuralgia; but she attends all -the first nights because her one passion is to be made love to in public. -If her admirer did not hang over her in front of the box just as that man -is doing, she would not tolerate him for a week.'</p> - -<p>At that moment the conversation was interrupted by a new-comer, who -asked if he had seen the play when it was first produced.</p> - -<p>'Yes,' said Harding; 'I did.' And he continued his search for -acquaintances amid white rows of female backs, necks, and half-seen -profiles—amid the black cloth shoulders cut sharply upon the illumined -curtain.</p> - -<p>'And what do you think of it? Do you think it will succeed this -time?'</p> - -<p>'Ford will create an impression in the part; but I don't think the piece -will run.'</p> - -<a name="062.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'And why? Because the public is too stupid?'</p> - -<p>'Partly, and partly because Price is only an intentionist. He cannot -carry an idea quite through.'</p> - -<p>'Are you going to write about it?'</p> - -<p>'I may.'</p> - -<p>'And what will you say?'</p> - -<p>'Oh, most interesting things to be said. Let's take the case of Hubert -Price ... Ah, there, the curtain is going up.'</p> - -<p>The curtain rolled slowly up, and in a small country drawing-room, in -very simple but very pointedly written dialogue, the story of Mrs. Holmes' -domestic misfortunes was gradually unfolded. It appeared that she had -flirted with Captain Grey; he had written her some compromising letters, -and she had once been to his rooms alone. So the Court had pronounced a -decree <i>nisi</i>. But Mrs. Holmes had not been unfaithful to her husband. -She had flirted with Captain Grey because her husband's attentions to a -certain Mrs. Barrington had maddened her, and in her jealous rage had -written foolish letters, and been to see Captain Grey.</p> - -<p>Hubert noticed that folk were still asking for their seats, and pushing -down the very rows in which the most influential critics were sitting. They -exchanged a salutation with their friends in the dress-circle, and, <a -name="063.png" class="pb"></a> when they were seated, looked around, making -observations regarding the appearance of the house; and all the while the -actors were speaking. Hubert trembled with fear and rage. Would these -people never give their attention to the stage? If they had been sitting by -him, he could have struck them. Then a line turned into nonsense by the -actress who played Mrs. Holmes was a lancinating pain; and the actor who -played Captain Grey, played so slowly that Hubert could hardly refrain from -calling from his box. He looked round the theatre, noticing the indifferent -faces of the critics, and the women's shoulders seemed to him especially -vacuous and imbecile.</p> - -<p>The principal scene of the second act was between Mrs. Holmes and the -man who had divorced her. He has-been driven to drink by the vile behaviour -of his second wife; he is ruined in health and in pocket, and has come to -the woman he wronged to beg forgiveness; he knows she has learnt to love -Captain Grey, but will not marry him, because she believes that once -married always married. There is only one thing he can do to repair the -wrong he has done—he will commit suicide, and so enable her to marry the -man she loves. He tells her that he has bought the pistol to do it with, -and the words, 'Not here! not here!' escape from <a name="064.png" -class="pb"></a> her; and he answers, 'No, not here, but in a cab. I've got -one at the door.' He goes out; Captain Grey enters, and Mrs. Holmes begs -him to save her husband. While they are discussing how this is to be done, -he re-enters, saying that his conscience smote him as he was going to pull -the trigger. Will she forgive him? If she won't, he must make an end of -himself. She says she will.</p> - -<p>In the third act Hubert had attempted to paint Mr. Holmes' vain efforts -to reform his life. But the constant presence of Captain Grey in the -household, his attempts to win Mrs. Holmes from her husband, and the -drunken husband's amours with the servant-maid disgusted rather than -horrified. In the fourth act the wretched husband admits that his -reformation is impossible, and that, although he has no courage to commit -suicide and set his wife free, he will return to his evil courses; they -will sooner or later make an end of him. The slowness and deadly gravity -with which Ford took this scene rendered it intolerable; and, -notwithstanding the beauty of the conclusion, when the deserted wife, in -the silence of her drawing-room, reads again Captain Grey's letter, telling -her that he has left England for ever, and with another, the success of the -play was left in doubt, and the audience <a name="065.png" class="pb"></a> -filed out, talking, chattering, arguing, wondering what the public verdict -would be.</p> - -<p>To avoid commiseration of heartless friends and the triumphant glances -of literary enemies, Hubert passed through the door leading on to the -stage. Scene-shifters were brutally pushing away what remained of his play; -and the presence of Hamilton Brown, the dramatic author, talking to Ford, -was at that moment particularly disagreeable. On catching sight of Hubert, -Brown ran to him, shook him by the hand, and murmured some discreet -congratulations. He preferred the piece, however, as it had been originally -written, and suggested to Ford the advisability of returning to the first -text. Then Ford went upstairs to take his paint off, and Hubert walked -about the stage with Brown. Brown's insincerity was sufficiently -transparent; but men in Hubert's position catch at straws, and he soon -began to believe that the attitude of the public towards his play was not -so unfavourable as he had imagined.</p> - -<p>Hubert tried to summon up a smile for the stage-door keeper, who, he -feared, had heard that the piece had failed, and then the moment they got -outside he begged Rose to tell him the exact truth. She assured him that -Ford had said that he had always counted on a certain amount of opposition; -but that he believed <a name="066.png" class="pb"></a> that the general -public, being more free of prejudice and less sophisticated, would be -impressed by the simple humanity of the play. The conversation paused, and -at the end of an irritating silence he said, 'You were excellent, as good -as any one could be in a part that did not suit them. Ah, if he had cast -you for the adventuress, how you would have played it!...'</p> - -<p>'I'm so glad you are pleased. I hope my notices will be good. Do you -think they will?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, your notices will be all right,' he answered, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>'And your notices will be all right too. No one can say what is going to -succeed. There was a call after each of the last three acts.... I don't see -how a piece could go better. It is the suspense....'</p> - -<p>'Ah, yes, the suspense!'</p> - -<p>They lingered on the landing, and Hubert said, 'Won't you come in for a -moment?' She followed him into the room. His calm face, usually a perfect -picture of repose and self-possession, betrayed his emotion by a certain -blankness in the eyes, certain contractions in the skin of the forehead. -'I'm afraid,' he said, 'there's no hope.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, you mustn't say that!' she replied. 'I think it <a name="067.png" -class="pb"></a> went very well indeed.... I know I did nothing with the -young girl. I oughtn't to have undertaken the part.'</p> - -<p>'You were excellent. If we only get some good notices. If we don't, I -shall never get another play of mine acted.' He looked at her imploringly, -thirsting for a woman's sympathy. But the little girl was thinking of -certain effects which she would have made, and which the actress who had -played the adventuress had failed to make.</p> - -<p>'I watched her all the time,' she said, 'following every line, saying -all the time, "Oh yes, that's all very nice and very proper, my young -woman; but it's not it; no, not at all—not within a hundred miles of it." -I don't think she ever really touched the part—do you?' Hubert did not -answer, and a quiver of distraction ran through the muscles of her -face.</p> - -<p>'Why don't you answer me?'</p> - -<p>'I can't answer you,' he said abruptly. Then remembering, he added, -'Forgive me; I can think of nothing now.' He hid his face in his hands, and -sobbed twice—two heavy, choking sobs, pregnant with the weight of anguish -lying on his heart.</p> - -<p>Seeing how much he suffered, she laid her hand on his shoulder. 'I am -very sorry; I wish I could help <a name="068.png" class="pb"></a> you. I -know how it tears the heart when one cannot get out what one has in one's -brain.'</p> - -<p>Her artistic appreciation of his suffering only jarred him the more. -What he longed for was some kind, simple-hearted woman who would say, -'Never mind, dear; the play was perfectly right, only they did not -understand it; I love you better than ever.' But Rose could not give him -the sympathy he wanted; and to be alone was almost a relief. He dared not -go to bed; he sat looking into space. The roar of London hushed till it was -no more than a faint murmur, the hissing of the gas grew louder, and still -Hubert sat thinking, the same thoughts battling in his brain. He looked -into the future, but could see nothing but suicide. His uncle? He had -applied to him before for help; there was no hope there. Then he tramped up -and down, maddened by the infernal hissing of the gas; and then threw -himself into his arm-chair. And so a terrible night wore away; and it was -not until long after the early carts had begun to rattle in the streets -that exhaustion brought an end to his sufferings, and he rolled into -bed.</p> - -<a name="069.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>VI</h2> - -<p>'<span class="small-caps">What</span> will ye 'ave to eat? Eggs and -bacon?'</p> - -<p>'No, no!'</p> - -<p>'Well, then, 'ave a chop?'</p> - -<p>'No, no!'</p> - -<p>'Ye must 'ave something.'</p> - -<p>'A cup of tea, a slice of toast. I'm not hungry.'</p> - -<p>'Well, ye are worse than a young lady for a happetite. Miss Massey 'as -sent you down these 'ere papers.'</p> - -<p>The servant-girl laid the papers on the bed, and Hubert lay back on his -pillow, so that he might collect his thoughts. Stretching forth his hands, -he selected the inevitable paper.</p> - -<p>'For those who do not believe that our English home life is composed -mainly, if not entirely, of lying, drunkenness, and conjugal infidelity, -and its sequel divorce, yester evening at the Queen's Theatre must have -been a sad and dismal experience. That men and women who have vowed to love -each other do sometimes prove false to their troth no reasonable <a -name="070.png" class="pb"></a> man will deny. With the divorce court before -our eyes, even the most enthusiastic believer in the natural goodness and -ultimate perfectibility of human nature must admit that men and women are -frail. But drunkenness and infidelity are happily not characteristic of our -English homes. Then why, we ask, should a dramatist select such a theme, -and by every artifice of dialogue force into prominence all that is mean -and painful in an unfortunate woman's life? Always the same relentless -method; the cold, passionless curiosity of the vivisector; the scalpel is -placed under the nerve, and we are called upon to watch the quivering -flesh. Never the kind word, the tears, the effusion, which is man's highest -prerogative, and which separates him from the brute and signifies the -immortal end for which he was created. We hold that it is a pity to see so -much talent wasted, and it was indeed a melancholy sight to see so many -capable actors and actresses labouring to——'</p> - -<p>'This is even worse than usual,' said Hubert; and glancing through half -a column of hysterical commonplace, he came upon the following:—</p> - -<p>'But if this woman had succeeded in reclaiming from vice the man who -unjustly divorced her, and who in his misery goes back to ask her -forgiveness for pity's <a name="071.png" class="pb"></a> sake, what a -lesson we should have had! And, with lightened and not with heavier hearts, -we should have left the theatre comforted, better and happier men and -women. But turning his back on the goodness, truth, and love whither he had -induced us to believe he was leading us, the author flagrantly makes the -woman contradict her whole nature in the last act; and, because her husband -falls again, she, instead of raising him with all the tender mercies and -humanities of wifehood, declares that her life has been one long mistake, -and that she accepts the divorce which the Court had unjustly granted. The -moral, if such a word may be applied to such a piece is this: "The law may -be bad, but human nature is worse."'</p> - -<p>The other morning papers took the same view,—a great deal of talent -wasted on a subject that could please no one. Hubert threw the papers -aside, lay back, and in the lucid idleness of the bed his thoughts grew -darker. It was hardly possible that the piece could survive such notices; -and if it did not? Well, he would have to go. But until the piece was taken -out of the bills it would be a weakness to harbour the ugly thought.</p> - -<p>There were, however, the evening papers to look forward to, and soon -after midday Annie was sent to buy all that had appeared. Hubert expected -to find in <a name="072.png" class="pb"></a> these papers a more delicate -appreciation of his work. Many of the critics of the evening press were his -personal friends, and nearly all were young men in full sympathy with the -new school of dramatic thought. He read paper after paper with avidity; and -Annie was sent in a cab to buy one that had not yet found its way so far -north as Fitzroy Street. The opinion of this paper was of all importance, -and Hubert tore it open with trembling fingers. Although more temperately -written than the others, it was clearly favourable, and Hubert sighed a -sweet sigh of relief. A weight was lifted from him; the world suddenly -seemed to grow brighter; and he went to the theatre that evening, and, half -doubting and half confidently, presented himself at the door of Montague -Ford's dressing-room. The actor had not yet begun to dress, and was busy -writing letters. He stretched his hand hurriedly to Hubert.</p> - -<p>'Excuse me, my dear fellow; I have a couple of letters to finish.'</p> - -<p>Hubert sat down, glancing nervously from the actor to the morning papers -with which the table was strewn. There was not an evening paper there. Had -he not seen them? At the end of about ten minutes the actor said,—</p> - -<a name="073.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Well, this is a bad business; they are terribly down on us—aren't -they? What do you think?'</p> - -<p>'Have you seen the evening papers—<i>The Telephone</i>, for -instance?'</p> - -<p>'Oh yes, I've seen them all; but the evening papers don't amount to -much. Stiggins's article was terrible. I am afraid he has killed the -piece.'</p> - -<p>'Don't you think it will run, then?'</p> - -<p>'Well, that depends upon the public, of course. If they like it, I'll -keep it on.'</p> - -<p>'How's the booking?'</p> - -<p>'Not good.' Montague Ford moved his papers absent-mindedly. At the end -of a long silence he said, 'Even if the piece did catch on, it would take a -lot of working up to undo the mischief of those articles. Of course you can -rely on me to give it every chance. I shan't take it out of the bills if I -can possibly help.'</p> - -<p>'There is my <i>Gipsy</i>.'</p> - -<p>'I have another piece ready to put into rehearsal; it was arranged for -six months ago. I only consented to produce your play because—well, -because there has been such an outcry lately about art.... Tremendous part -for me in the new piece... I'm sure you'll like it.'</p> - -<p>The business did improve, but so very slowly that <a name="074.png" -class="pb"></a> Hubert was afraid Ford would lose patience and take the -play out of the bills. But while the fate of the play hung in the balance, -Hubert's life was being rendered unbearable by duns. They had found him -out, one and all; to escape being served was an impossibility; and now his -table was covered with summonses to appear at the County Court. This would -not matter if the piece once took the public taste. Then he would be able -to pay every one, and have some time to rest and think. And there seemed -every prospect of its catching on. Discussions regarding the morality of -the play had arisen in the newspapers, and the eternal question whether men -and women are happier married or unmarried had reached its height. Hubert -spent the afternoon addressing letters to the papers, striving to fan the -flame of controversy. Every evening he listened for Rose's footstep on the -stairs.—How did the piece go?—Was there a better house? Money or -paper?—Have you seen the notice in the ——?—First-rate, wasn't it?—That -ought to do some good.—I've heard there was a notice in the ——, but I -haven't seen it. Have you?—No; but So-and-so saw the paper, and said there -was nothing in it. And, do you know, I hear there's going to be a notice in -<i>The Modern Review</i>, and that So-and-so is writing it.</p> - -<a name="075.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>Every post brought newspapers; the room was filled with newspapers—all -kinds of newspapers—papers one has never heard of,—French papers, Welsh -papers, North of England papers, Scotch and Irish papers. Hubert read -columns about himself, anecdotes of all kinds,—where he was born, who were -his parents, and what first induced him to attempt writing for the stage; -his personal appearance, mode of life, the cut of his clothes; his -religious, moral, and political views. Had he been the plaintiff in an -action for criminal libel, greater industry in the collection and the -fabrication of personal details could hardly have been displayed.</p> - -<p>But at these articles Hubert only glanced; he was interested in his -piece, not in himself, and when Annie brought up <i>The Modern Review</i> -he tore it open, knowing he would find there criticism more fundamental, -more searching. But as he read, the expression of hope which his face wore -changed to one of pain pitiful to look upon. The article began with a -sketch of the general situation, and in a tone of commiseration, of -benevolent malice, the writer pointed out how inevitable it was that the -critics should have taken Mr. Price, when <i>Divorce</i> was first -produced, for the new dramatic genius they were waiting for. 'There comes a -moment,' said this caustic writer, 'in the affairs of <a name="076.png" -class="pb"></a> men when the new is not only eagerly accepted, but when it -is confounded with the original. Wearied by the old stereotyped form of -drama, the critics had been astonished by a novelty of subject, more -apparent than real, and by certain surface qualities in the execution; they -had hailed the work as being original both in form and in matter, whereas -all that was good in the play had been borrowed from France and -Scandinavia. <i>Divorce</i> was the inevitable product of the time. It had -been written by Mr. Price, but it might have been written by a dozen other -young men—granting intelligence, youth, leisure, a university education, -and three or four years of London life—any one of a dozen clever young men -who frequent West End drawing-rooms and dabble in literature might have -written it. All that could be said was that the play was, or rather had -been, <i>dans le mouvement</i>; and original work never is <i>dans le -mouvement</i>. <i>Divorce</i> was nothing more than the product of certain -surroundings, and remembering Mr. Price's other plays, there seemed to be -no reason to believe that he would do better. Mr. Price had tried his hand -at criticism, and that was a sure sign that the creative faculty had begun -to wither. His critical essays were not rich nor abundant in thought, they -were not the skirmishing of a man fighting for his <a name="077.png" -class="pb"></a> ideas, they were not preliminary to a great battle; they -were at once vague and pedantic, somewhat futile, <i>les ébats d'un esprit -en peine</i>, and seemed to announce a talent in progress of disintegration -rather than of reconstruction.</p> - -<p>'Sometimes the critic's phrases seemed wet with tears; sometimes, -abandoning his tone of commiseration, he would assume one of scientific -indifference. The phenomenon was the commonest. There were dozens of Hubert -Prices in London. The universities and the newspapers, working singly and -in collaboration, turned them out by the dozen. And the mission of these -men of intelligent culture seemed to be to <i>poser des lapins sur la jeune -presse</i>. Each one came in turn with his little volume of poems, his -little play, his little picture; all were men of "advanced ideas"; in other -words, they were all <i>dans le mouvement</i>. There was the rough Hubert -Price, who made mild consternation in the drawing-room, and there was the -sophisticated Hubert Price, who cajoled the drawing-room; there was the -sincere and the insincere, and the Price that suffered and the Price that -didn't. Each one brought a different <i>nuance</i>, a thousand -infinitesimal variations of the type, but, considered merely in its -relation to art, the species may be said to be divided <a name="078.png" -class="pb"></a> into two distinct categories. In the first category are -those who rise almost at the first bound to a certain level, who produce -quickly, never reaching again the original standard, dropping a little -lower at each successive effort until their work becomes indistinguishable -from the ordinary artistic commercialism of the time. The fate of those in -the second category is more pathetic; they gradually wither and die away -like flowers planted in a thin soil. Among these men many noble souls are -to be found, men who have surrendered all things for love of their art, and -who seemed at starting to be the best equipped to win, but who failed, -impossible to tell how or why. Sometimes their failure turns to comedy, -sometimes to tragedy. They may become refined, delicate, elderly bachelors, -the ornaments of drawing-rooms, professional diners-out—men with brilliant -careers behind them. But if fate has not willed that they should retire -into brilliant shells; if chance does not allow them to retreat, to -separate themselves from their kind, but arbitrarily joins them to others, -linking their fate to the fate of others' unhappiness, disaster may and -must accrue from the alliance; honesty of purpose, trueness of heart, deep -love, every great, good, and gracious quality to be found in nature, will -not suffice to save them.'</p> - -<a name="079.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>The paper dropped from his hands, and he recollected all his -failures.</p> - -<p>'Once I could do good work; now I can do neither good work nor bad. Were -I a rich man, I should collect my scattered papers and write songs to be -sung in drawing-rooms; but being a poor one, I must—I suppose I must get -out. Positively, there is no hope,—debts on every side. Fate has willed me -to go as went Haydon, Gerard de Nerval, and Maréchal. The first cut his -throat, the second hanged himself, and the third blew out his brains. -Clearly the time has come to consider how I shall make my exit. It is a -little startling to be called upon so peremptorily to go.'</p> - -<p>In this moment of extreme dejection it seemed to Hubert that the writer -of the article had told him the exact truth. He refused to admit the plea -of poverty. It was of course hard to write when one is being harassed by -creditors. But if he had had it in him, it would have come out. The critic -had very probably told him the truth. He could not hope to make a living -out of literature. He had not the strength to write the masterpiece which -the perverse cruelty of nature had permitted him only to see, and he was -hopelessly unfit for journalism. But in his simple, wholesome mind there -was no bent towards suicide; and he <a name="080.png" class="pb"></a> -scanned every horizon. Once again he thought of his uncle. Five years ago -he had written, asking him for the loan of a hundred pounds. He had -received ten. And how vain it would be to write a second time! A few pounds -would only serve to prolong his misery. No; he would not drift from -degradation to degradation.</p> - -<p>He only glanced at the letter which Annie had brought up with the copy -of <i>The Modern Review</i>. It was clearly a lawyer's letter. Should he -open it? Why not spare himself the pain? He could alter nothing; and in -these last days—— Leaving the thought unfinished, he sought for his keys; -he went to his box, unlocked it, and took out a small paper package. Of the -fifty pounds he had received from Ford about twenty remained: he had been -poorer before, but hardly quite so hopeless. He scanned every horizon—all -were barred. The thought of suicide, and with it the instinctive shrinking -from it, came into his mind again. Suppose he took, that very night, an -overdose of chloral? He tried to put the thought from him, and returned, a -little dazed and helpless, to his chair. Had the critic in <i>The Modern -Review</i> told him the truth? Was he incapable of earning a living? It -seemed so. Above all, was he incapable of finishing <a name="081.png" -class="pb"></a> <i>The Gipsy</i> as he intended? No; that he felt was a -lie. Give him six months' quiet, free from worry and all anxiety, and he -would do it. Many a year had passed since he had enjoyed a month of quiet; -and glancing again at the letter on the table, he thought that perhaps at -that very moment a score of gallery boys were hissing his play. Perhaps at -that very moment Ford was making up his mind to announce the last six -nights of <i>Divorce</i>. At a quarter to twelve he heard Rose's foot on -the stairs. He opened the door.</p> - -<p>'How did the piece go to-night?'</p> - -<p>'Pretty well.'</p> - -<p>'Only pretty well? Won't you come in for a few minutes?... So the piece -didn't go very well to-night?'</p> - -<p>'Oh yes, it did. I've seen it go better; but——'</p> - -<p>'Did you get a call?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, after the second act.'</p> - -<p>'Not after the third?'</p> - -<p>'No. That act never goes well. Harding came behind; I was speaking to -him, and he said something which struck me as being very true. Ford, he -said, plays the part a great deal too seriously. When the piece was first -produced, it was played more good-humouredly <a name="082.png" -class="pb"></a> by indifferent actors, who let the thing run without trying -to bring out every point. Ford makes it as hard as nails. I think those -were his exact words.'</p> - -<p>Hubert did not answer. At the end of a long silence he said,—</p> - -<p>'Did you hear anything about the last night's?'</p> - -<p>'No,' she said; 'I heard nothing of that.'</p> - -<p>'Ford appeared quite satisfied then?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, quite,' she answered, with difficulty; for his eyes were fixed on -her, and she felt he knew she was not telling the truth. The conversation -paused again, and to turn it into another channel she said, 'Why, you have -not opened your letter!'</p> - -<p>'I can see it is a lawyer's letter, on account of some unpaid bill. If I -could pay it, I would; but as I can't——'</p> - -<p>'You are afraid to open it,' said Rose.</p> - -<p>Ashamed of his weakness, Hubert opened the letter, and began to read. -Rose saw that the letter was not such an one as he had expected, and a -moment after his face told her that fortunate news had come to him. The -signs of the tumult within were represented by the passing of the hand -across the brow, as if to brush aside some strange hallucination, and <a -name="083.png" class="pb"></a> the sudden coming of a vague look of -surprise and fear into the eyes. He said,—</p> - -<p>'Read it! Read it!'</p> - -<p>Relieved of much detail and much cumbersome legal circumlocution, it was -to the following effect:—That about three months ago Mr. Burnett had come -up from his place in Sussex, and at the offices of Messrs. Grandly & -Co. had made a will, in which he had disinherited his adopted daughter, -Miss Emily Watson, and left everything to Mr. Hubert Price. There was no -question as to the validity of the will; but Messrs. Grandly deemed it -their duty to inform Mr. Hubert Price of the circumstances under which it -had been made, and also of the fact that a few weeks before his death Mr. -Burnett had told Mr. John Grandly, who was then staying with Mr. Burnett at -Ashwood, that he intended adding a codicil, leaving some two or three -hundred a year to Miss Watson. It was unfortunate that Mr. Burnett had not -had time to do this; for Miss Watson was an orphan, eighteen years of age, -and entirely unprovided for. Messrs. Grandly begged to submit these facts -to the consideration of Mr. Hubert Price. Miss Watson was now residing at -Ashwood. She was there with a friend of hers, Mrs. Bentley; and should Mr. -Hubert Price <a name="084.png" class="pb"></a> feel inclined to do what Mr. -Burnett had left undone, Messrs. Grandly would have very great pleasure in -carrying his wishes into effect.</p> - -<p>'I'm not dreaming, am I?'</p> - -<p>'No, you are not. It is quite true. Your uncle has left his money to -you. I am so glad; indeed I am. You will be able to finish your play, and -take a theatre and produce it yourself if you like. I hope you won't forget -me. I do want to play that part. You can't quite know what I shall do with -it. One can't explain oneself in a scene here and there.... What are you -thinking of?'</p> - -<p>'I'm thinking of that poor girl, Emily Watson. It comes very hard upon -her.'</p> - -<p>'Who is she?'</p> - -<p>'The girl my uncle disinherited.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, she! Well, you can marry her if you like. That would not be a bad -notion. But if you do, you'll forget all about me and Lady Hayward.'</p> - -<p>'No; I shall never forget you, Rose.' He stretched his hand to her; but, -irrespective of his will, the gesture seemed full of farewell.</p> - -<p>'I'm so much obliged to you,' he said; 'had it not been for you, I might -never have opened that letter.'</p> - -<p>'Even if you hadn't, it wouldn't have mattered; you <a name="085.png" -class="pb"></a> would have heard of your good fortune some other way. But -it is getting very late. I must say good-night. I hope you will have a -pleasant time in the country, and will finish your play. Good-night.'</p> - -<p>Returning from the door, he stopped to think. 'We have been very good -friends—that is all. How strangely determined she is!... More so than I -am. She is bound to succeed. There is in her just that note of individual -passion.... Perhaps some one will find her out before I have -finished,—that would be a pity. I wonder which of us will succeed -first?'</p> - -<p>Then the madness of good fortune came upon him suddenly; he could think -no more of Rose, and had to go for a long walk in the streets.</p> - -<a name="086.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>VII</h2> - -<p>'<span class="small-caps">Dearest</span> Emily, you must prepare -yourself for the worst.'</p> - -<p>'Is he dead?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; he passed away quite quietly. To look at him one would say he was -asleep; he does not appear to have suffered at all.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, Julia, Julia, do you think he forgave me? I could not do what he -asked me.... I loved him very dearly as a father, but I could not have -married him.'</p> - -<p>'No, dear, you could not. Such a marriage would have been most -unnatural; he was more than forty years older than you.'</p> - -<p>'I do not think he ever thought of such a thing until about a month or -six weeks ago. You remember how I ran to you? I was as white as a ghost, -and I trembled like a leaf. I could hardly speak.... You remember?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I remember; and some hours after, when I came into this room, he -was standing there, just there, on the hearth-rug; there was a fearful look -of pain and <a name="087.png" class="pb"></a> despair on his face—he -looked as if he was going mad. I never saw such a look before, and I never -wish to see such a look again. And the effort he made to appear unconcerned -when he saw me was perhaps the worst part of it. I pretended to see -nothing, and walked away towards the window and looked out. But all the -while I could feel that some terrible drama was passing behind me. At last -I had to look round. He was sitting in that chair, his elbows on his knees, -clasping his head with both hands, the old, gnarled fingers twined in the -iron-grey hair. Then, unable to contain himself any longer, he rushed out -of the room, out of the house, and across the park.'</p> - -<p>'You say that he passed away quietly; he did not seem to suffer at -all?'</p> - -<p>'No, he never recovered consciousness.'</p> - -<p>'But do you think that my refusal to marry him had anything to do with -his death?'</p> - -<p>'Oh no, Emily; a fit of apoplexy, with a man of his age, generally ends -fatally.'</p> - -<p>'Even if I had known it all beforehand I don't think I could have acted -differently. I could not have married him. Indeed I couldn't, Julia, not -even if I knew I should save his life by doing so. I daresay it is very -wicked of me, but——'</p> - -<a name="088.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Dearest Emily, you must not give way to such thoughts; you did quite -right in refusing to marry Mr. Burnett. It was very wrong of him even to -think of asking you, and if he had lived he would have seen how wrong it -was of him to desire such a thing.'</p> - -<p>'If he had lived! But then he didn't live, not even long enough to -forgive me, and when we think of how much he suffered—I don't mean in -dying, you say he passed away quietly, but all this last month how -heart-broken he looked! You remember when he sat at the head of the table, -never speaking to us, and how frightened I was lest I should meet him on -the stairs; I used to stand at the door of my room, afraid to move. I know -he suffered, poor old man. I was very, very sorry for him. Indeed I was, -Julia, for I'm not selfish, and when I think now that he died without -forgiving me, I feel, I feel—oh, I feel as if I should like to die myself. -Why do such things happen to me? I feel just as miserable now as I used to -when I lived with father and mother, who could not agree. I have often told -you how miserable I was then, but I don't think you ever quite understood. -I feel just the same now, just as if I never wanted to see any one or -anything again. I was so unhappy when I was a child, they thought I would -die, and I should have died if I had <a name="089.png" class="pb"></a> -remained listening to father and mother any longer. ... Every one thought I -was so lucky when Mr. Burnett decided to adopt me and leave me all his -money, and he has done that, poor old man, so I suppose I should be happy; -but I'm not.'</p> - -<p>The girl's eyes turned instinctively towards the window and rested for a -moment on the fair, green prospects of the park.</p> - -<p>'I hated to listen to father and mother quarrelling, but I loved them, -and I had not been here a year before father died, and darling mother was -not long following him—only six months. Then I had no one: a few distant -relatives, whom I knew nothing of, whom I did not care for, so I gave all -my love to Mr. Burnett. He was so good to me; he never denied me anything; -he gave me everything, even you, dearest Julia. When he thought I wanted a -companion, he found you for me. I learnt to love you. You became my best -and dearest friend. Then things seemed to brighten up, and I thought I was -happy, when all this dreadful trouble came upon us. Don't let's speak of it -more than we can help. I often wished myself dead. Didn't you, Julia?'</p> - -<p>Emily Watson told the story of her misfortunes in a low, musical voice, -heedless of two or three interruptions, <a name="090.png" class="pb"></a> -hardly conscious of her listener, impressed and interested by the fatality -of circumstances which she believed in design against her. She was a small, -slender girl of about eighteen. Her abundant chestnut hair—exquisite, -soft, and silky—was looped picturesquely, and fastened with a thin -tortoiseshell comb. The tiny mouth trembled, and the large, prominent eyes -reflected a strange, yearning soul. She was dressed in white muslin, and -the fantastically small waist was confined with a white band. Her friend -and companion, Julia Bentley, was a woman of about thirty, well above the -medium height, full-bosomed and small-waisted. The type was Anglo-Saxon -even to commonplace. The face was long, with a look of instinctive kindness -upon it. She was given to staring, and as she looked at Emily, her blue -eyes filled with an expression which told of a nature at once affectionate -and intelligent. She was dressed in yellow linen, and wore a gold bracelet -on a well-turned arm.</p> - -<p>The room was a long, old-fashioned drawing-room. It had three windows, -and all three were filled with views of the park, now growing pale in the -evening air. The flower-gardens were drawn symmetrically about the house -and were set with blue flower-vases in which there were red geraniums. It -was a very <a name="091.png" class="pb"></a> large room, nearly forty feet -long, with old portraits on the walls—ugly things and ill done; and where -there were no portraits the walls were decorated with vine leaves and -mountains. The parqueted floor was partially covered with skins, and the -furniture seemed to have known many a generation; some of it was heavy and -cumbersome, some of it was modern. There was a grand piano, and above it -two full-length portraits—a lady in a blue dress and a man in black velvet -knee-breeches. At the end of a long silence, Emily suddenly threw herself -weeping into Julia's arms.</p> - -<p>'Oh, you are my only friend; you will not leave me now.... We shall -always love one another, shall we not? If anything ever came between us it -would kill me.... That poor old man lying dead up-stairs! He loved me very -dearly, and I loved him, too. Yet I said just now I could not have married -him even if I had known it would save his life. I was wrong; yes, I would -have married him if I had known.... You don't believe me?'</p> - -<p>'My dearest girl, you must try to forget that Mr. Burnett ever -entertained so foolish a thought. He was a very good man, and loved you for -a long time as he should have loved you—as a daughter. We shall <a -name="092.png" class="pb"></a> respect his memory best by forgetting the -events of the last six weeks. And now, Emily, dinner will be ready at seven -o'clock, and it is now six. What are you going to do?'</p> - -<p>'I shall go out for a little walk. I shall go down and see the -swans.'</p> - -<p>'Shall I come with you?'</p> - -<p>'No, thank you, dear; I think I'd sooner be alone. I want to think.'</p> - -<p>Julia looked a moment anxiously at this fragile girl, whose tiny head -was poised on a long, delicate neck like a fruit on its stem.</p> - -<p>'Yes, go for a walk, dear,' said Julia; 'it will do you good. Shall I go -and fetch your hat and jacket?'</p> - -<p>'No, thank you, I will not trouble you; I'll go myself.'</p> - -<p>'No, Emily, I think you had better let me go.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, no; I am not afraid.'</p> - -<p>And she went up the wide oak staircase, thinking of the man who lay dead -in the room at the end of the passage. She was conscious of a sense of -dread; the house seemed to wear a strange air, and her dog, Dandy, was -conscious of it, too; he was more silent, less joyful than usual. And when -she came from her room, dressed to go out, instead of rushing down-stairs, -<a name="093.png" class="pb"></a> barking with joy, he dropped his tail and -lingered at the end of the passage. She called him; he still hesitated, and -then, yielding to a sudden desire, she went down the passage and knocked at -the door of the room. The nurse answered her knock.</p> - -<p>'Oh, don't come in, miss.'</p> - -<p>'Why not? I want to see him before he goes away for ever.'</p> - -<p>Upon the limp, white curtains of an old four-posted bed she saw the -memorable profile—stern, unrelenting. How still he lay! Never would that -face speak or laugh or see again. Although sixty-five, his head was covered -with short, thick, iron-grey hair; the beard, too, was short and thick, and -iron-grey. The face was rugged, and when Emily touched the coarse hand, -telling of a life of toil, she started—it was singularly cold. Fear and -sorrow in like measure choked her, and her soul awoke, and tremblingly she -walked out of the house, glad to breathe the sweet evening air.</p> - -<p>She walked towards the artificial water. The sky was melancholy and -grey, and the park lay before her, hushed and soundless. Through the -shadows of the darkening island two swans floated softly, leaving behind -slight silver lines; above, the swallows flew high in the evening. There -was sensation of death, <a name="094.png" class="pb"></a> too, in this -cold, mournful water, and in the silence that hung about it, and in some -vague way it reminded Emily of her own life. She had known little else but -death; her life seemed full of death; and those reflections, so distinct -and so colourless, were like death.</p> - -<p>Then, in a sudden expansion of youth she wondered. Her own life, how -strange, how personal, how intense! What did it mean, what meaning had it -in the great, wide world? And the impressive tranquillity, the pale death -of the day, lying like a flower on the water, seemed to symbolise her -thought, and she felt more distinctly than she had ever done before. And -there arose in her a nervous and passionate interest in herself. She seemed -so strange, so wonderful. Her childhood was in itself an enigma. That sad -and sorrowful childhood of hers, passed in that old London house; her -mother's love for her; her cruel, stern stepfather, and the endless -quarrels between her father and mother, which made her young life so -unbearable, so wretched, that she could never think of those years without -tears rising to her eyes. And then the going away, coming to live with Mr. -Burnett! The death of her father and her dear mother, so sudden, following -so soon one after the other. How much there had been <a name="095.png" -class="pb"></a> in her life, how wonderful it was! Her love of Mr. Burnett, -and then that bitter and passionate change in him! That proposal of -marriage; could she ever forget it? And then this cruel and sudden death. -Everything she had ever loved had been taken from her. Only Julia remained, -and should Julia be taken from her, she felt that she must die. But that -would not, could not, happen. She was now mistress of Ashwood, she was a -great heiress; and she and Julia would live always together, they would -always love one another, they would always live here in this beautiful -place which they loved so well.</p> - -<a name="096.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>VIII</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">There</span> were at the funeral a few personal -friends who lived in the neighbourhood, the farmers on the estate, and the -labourers; and when the little crowd separated outside the church, Emily -and Julia walked back to Ashwood with Mr. Grandly, Mr. Burnett's intimate -friend and solicitor. They returned through the park, hardly speaking at -all, Emily absent-minded as usual, waving her parasol occasionally at a -passing butterfly. The grass was warm and beautiful to look on, and they -lingered, prolonging the walk. It was very good of Mr. Grandly to accompany -them back; he might have gone on straight to the station, so Julia thought, -and she was surprised indeed when, instead of bidding them good-bye at the -front door, he said—</p> - -<p>'Before I return to London I have a communication to make to both you -ladies. Will it suit you to come into the drawing-room with me?'</p> - -<p>'Perfectly, so far as I'm concerned; and you, Emily?'</p> - -<a name="097.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Oh, I've nothing to do; but if it is about business, Julia will -attend——'</p> - -<p>'I think you had better be present, Miss Watson.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Grandly was a tall, massive man with benevolent features; his bald, -pink skull was partly covered with one lock of white hair. There was an -anxious look in his pale, deep-set eyes which impressed Julia, and she -said: 'I hope this communication you have to make to us is not of a painful -nature. We have——'</p> - -<p>'Yes, Mrs. Bentley, I know that you have been severely tried lately, but -there is no help for it. I cannot keep you in ignorance any longer of -certain facts relating to Mr. Burnett's will.' The words 'will' and 'facts' -struck on Emily's ear. She had been thinking about her fortune. The very -ground she was walking on was hers. She was the owner of this beautiful -park; it seemed like a fairy tale. And that house, that dear, old-fashioned -house, that rambling, funny old place of all sizes and shapes, full of deep -staircases and pictures, was hers. Her eyes wandered along the smooth wide -drive, down to the placid water crossed by the great ornamental bridge, the -island where she had watched the swans floating last night—all these -things were hers. So the words 'will' and 'facts' and 'ignorance of them' -jarred her clutching <a name="098.png" class="pb"></a> little dream, and -she turned her eyes—they wore an anxious look—towards Mr. Grandly, and -said with an authoritative air: 'Yes, let us go into the drawing-room; I -want to hear what Mr. Grandly has to say about——Let us go into the -drawing-room at once.'</p> - -<p>Julia took the chair nearest to her. Emily stood at the window, waiting -impatiently for Mr. Grandly to begin. He laid his hat on the parquet, wiped -his forehead with his handkerchief, and drew an arm-chair forward. 'Mr. -Burnett, as you know, made a will some years ago, in favour of his cousin -and adopted daughter, Miss Emily Watson. In that will he left his entire -fortune to her, Ashwood Park and all his invested money. No other person -was mentioned in that will, except Miss Watson. It was I who drew up this -will. I remember discussing its provisions with Mr. Burnett, and advising -him to leave something, even if it were only a few hundred pounds, to his -nephew, Hubert Price. But Mr. Burnett was always a very headstrong man; he -had quarrelled with this young man, as he said, irreparably, and could not -be induced to leave him even a hundred pounds. I thought this was harsh, -and as Mr. Burnett's friend I told him so—I have always been opposed to -extreme measures,—but he was not to be gainsaid. So the matter remained -for many <a name="099.png" class="pb"></a> years; never did Mr. Burnett -mention his nephew's name. I thought he had forgotten the young man's -existence, when, suddenly, without warning, Mr. Burnett came into my office -and told me that he intended to alter his will, leaving all his property to -his nephew, Hubert Price. You know what old friends we were, and, presuming -on our friendship, I told him what I thought of his project of -disinheritance, for it amounted to that. Well, suffice it to say, we very -nearly quarrelled over the matter. I refused to draw up the will, so -iniquitous did it seem to me. He said: "Very well, Grandly, I'll go -elsewhere." Then I remembered that if I allowed him to go elsewhere I -should lose all hold over him, and I consented to draw up the will.'</p> - -<p>Emily listened, a vague expression of pain in her pathetic eyes. Then -this house, this room where she was sitting, was not hers, and a strange -man would come soon and drive her away!</p> - -<p>'And he has left Ashwood to Mr. Price, is not that his name?' she said, -abruptly.</p> - -<p>'Yes; he has left Ashwood to Mr. Price.'</p> - -<p>'And when did he make this new will?'</p> - -<p>'I think it is just about a month ago.'</p> - -<p>Emily leaned forward, and her great eyes, full of light and sorrow, were -fixed in space, her little pale <a name="100.png" class="pb"></a> hands -linked, and the great mass of chestnut hair slipping from the comb. She -was, in truth, at that moment the subject of a striking picture, and she -was even more impressive when she said, speaking slowly: 'Then that old man -was even wickeder than I thought. Oh, what I have learned in the last three -or four weeks! Oh, what wickedness, what wickedness!... But go on,' she -said, looking at Mr. Grandly; 'tell me all.'</p> - -<p>'I suppose there was some very serious reason, but on that point Mr. -Burnett absolutely refused to answer me. He said his reasons were his own, -and that he intended to leave his money to whom he pleased.'</p> - -<p>'There was——' Julia stopped short, and looked interrogatively at -Emily.</p> - -<p>'Go on, Julia, tell him; we have nothing to conceal.'</p> - -<p>'Mr. Burnett asked Emily to marry him a short time ago; she, of course, -refused, and ever since he seemed more like——'</p> - -<p>'A madman than anything else,' broke in Emily. 'Oh, for the last month -we have led a miserable life! It was a happy release.'</p> - -<p>'Is it possible,' said Mr. Grandly, 'that Mr. Burnett seriously -contemplated marriage with Miss Watson?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, and her refusal seemed to drive him out of his mind.'</p> - -<a name="101.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'I never was more surprised.' The placid face of the eminently -respectable solicitor lapsed into contemplation. 'I often tried,' he said, -suddenly, 'to divine the reason why he changed his will. Disappointed love -seemed the only conceivable reason, but I rejected it as being quite -inconceivable. Well, it only shows how little we know what is passing in -each other's minds.'</p> - -<p>'Then,' said Julia, 'Mr. Burnett has divided his fortune, leaving -Ashwood to Mr. Price, and all his invested money to Emily?'</p> - -<p>A look of pain passed over Mr. Grandly's benevolent face, and he -answered: 'Unfortunately he has left everything to Mr. Price.'</p> - -<p>'I'm glad,' exclaimed Emily, 'that he has left me nothing. Once he -thought fit to disinherit me because I would not marry him, I prefer not to -have anything to do with his money.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Grandly and Julia looked at each other; they did not need to speak; -each knew that the girl did not realise at once the full and irretrievable -nature of this misfortune. The word 'destitute' was at present unrealised, -and she only thought that she had been deprived of what she loved best in -the world—Ashwood. Mr. Grandly glanced at her, and then speaking a little -more hurriedly, said—</p> - -<a name="102.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'I was saying just now that I only consented to draw up the will so that -I might be able at some future time to induce Mr. Burnett to add a codicil -to it. Later on I spoke to him again on the subject, and he promised to -consider it, and a few days after he wrote to me, saying that he had -decided to take my advice and add a codicil. Subsequently, in another -letter he mentioned three hundred a year as being the sum he thought he -would be in honour bound to leave Miss Watson. Unfortunately, he did not -live long enough to carry this intention into execution. But the letters he -addressed to me on the subject exist, and I have every hope that the heir, -Mr. Price, will be glad to make some provision for his cousin.'</p> - -<p>'Have you any reason for thinking that Mr. Price will do so?' said -Julia.</p> - -<p>'No. But it seems impossible for any honourable man to act -otherwise.'</p> - -<p>'He cannot bear enmity against Emily, who of course knew nothing of his -quarrel with his uncle. Do you know anything about Mr. Price? What is he? -Where does he live?'</p> - -<p>'He is a literary man, I believe. I have heard that he writes -plays!'</p> - -<p>'Oh, a writer of plays.'</p> - -<a name="103.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Yes. I am glad of it; he may be easier to deal with. I daresay it is a -mistaken notion, but one is apt to imagine that these artist folk are more -generous with their money than ordinary mortals.'</p> - -<p>'Is he married?' said Julia, and involuntarily she glanced toward -Emily.</p> - -<p>Mr. Grandly, too, looked toward the girl, and then he said: 'I don't -know if Mr. Price is married; I hope not.'</p> - -<p>'Why do you hope so?' said Emily, suddenly.</p> - -<p>'Because if he isn't, there will only be one person to deal with. If he -had a wife, she would have a voice in the matter; and in such circumstances -as ours a man is easier to deal with. I earnestly hope Mr. Hubert Price is -not married, and shall consider it a great point in our favour if on -returning to town I find he is not.' Then assuming a lighter tone, for the -nervous strain of the last ten minutes had been intense, he said: 'If he is -not married, who knows—you may take a fancy to him, and he to you; then -things would be just the same as before—only better.'</p> - -<p>'I should not marry him—I hate him already. I wonder how you can think -of such a thing, Mr. Grandly? You know that he must be a very wicked man -for uncle to have disinherited him. I have always heard that<a -name="104.png" class="pb"></a>—but I don't know what I am saying.' Tears -welled up into her eyes. 'I daresay my cousin is not so bad as—but I can -talk no more.... I am very miserable, I have always been miserable, and I -don't know why; I never did harm to any one.'</p> - -<p>Soon after Mr. Grandly bade the ladies good-bye. Julia followed him to -the front door. 'You will do all you can to help us? That poor child is too -young, too inexperienced, to realise what her position is.'</p> - -<p>'I know, I know,' said Mr. Grandly, extending both hands to Julia; 'in -the whole course of my experience I never met with a sadder case. But we -must not take too sad a view of it. Perhaps all will come right in the end. -The young man cannot refuse to make good his uncle's intentions. He cannot -see his cousin go to the workhouse. I will do the best I can for you. The -moment I get back to London, I'll set inquiries on foot and find out his -address, and when I have seen him I'll write. Good-bye.'</p> - -<p>Then, resolving that it were better to leave the girl to herself, Julia -took up her key-basket and hurried away on household business. But in the -middle of her many occupations she would now and then stop short to think. -She had never heard of anything so cruel before. That poor girl—she must -go to her; she must <a name="105.png" class="pb"></a> not leave her alone -any longer. But it would be well to avoid the subject as much as possible. -She must think of something to distract her thoughts. The pony-chaise. It -might be the last time they had a carriage to go out in. But they could not -go out driving on the day of the funeral.</p> - -<p>That evening, as they were going to bed, Emily said, lifting her sweet, -pathetic little face, looking all love and gentleness: 'Oh, to think of a -common, vulgar writer coming here, with a common, vulgar wife and a horrid -crowd of children. Oh, Julia, doesn't it seem impossible? And yet I suppose -it is true. I cannot bear to think of it. I can see the horrid children -tramping up and down the stairs, breaking the things we have known and -loved so long; and they will destroy all my flowers, and no one will -remember to feed the poor swans. Dandy, my beloved, I shall be able to take -you with me.' And she caught up the rough-haired terrier and hugged him, -kissing his dear old head. 'Dandy is mine; they can't take him from me, can -they? But do you think the swans belong to them or to us? I suppose it -would be impossible to take them with us if we go to live in London. They -couldn't live in a backyard.'</p> - -<p>'But, dearest Emily, who are "they"? You don't <a name="106.png" -class="pb"></a> know that he is married—literary men don't often marry. -For all you know, he is a handsome young man, who will fall madly in love -with you.'</p> - -<p>'No one ever fell in love with me except that horrid old man—how I hate -him, how I detest to think of it! I thought I should have died when he -asked to marry me. The very memory of it is enough to make me hate all men, -and prevent me from liking any one. I don't think I could like him; I -should always see that wicked old man's hoary, wrinkled face in his.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, Emily, I cannot think how such ideas can come into your head. It is -not right, indeed it isn't.' And this simple Englishwoman looked at this -sensitive girl in sheer wonderment and alarm.</p> - -<p>'I only say what I think. I am glad the old man did disinherit me. I'm -glad we are leaving Ashwood; I cannot abide the place when I think of -him.... There, that is his chair. I can see him sitting in it now. He is -grinning at us; he is saying, "Ha! ha! I have made beggars of you both." -You remember how we used to tremble when we met his terrible old face on -the stairs; you remember how he used to sit glaring at us all through -dinner?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, Emily, I remember all that; but I do not think it natural that you -should forget all the years of <a name="107.png" class="pb"></a> kindness; -he was very good to you, and loved you very much, and if he forgot himself -at the end of his life, we must remember the weakness of age.'</p> - -<p>'The hideousness of age,' Emily replied, in a low tone. The conversation -paused, and then Julia said—</p> - -<p>'You are speaking wildly, Emily, and will live to regret your words. Let -us speak no more of Mr. Burnett... I daresay you will find your cousin a -charming young man. I should laugh if it were all to end in a marriage. And -how glad I should be to see you off on your honeymoon, to bid you -good-bye!'</p> - -<p>'Oh, Julia, don't speak like that; you will never bid me good-bye. You -will never leave me—promise me that—you are my only friend. Oh, Julia, -promise me that you will never leave me.'</p> - -<p>Tears rose in Julia's eyes, and taking the girl in her arms, she said, -'I'll never leave you, my dear girl, until you yourself wish it.'</p> - -<p>'I wish it? Oh, Julia, you do not know me. I have lost everything, -Julia, but I mustn't lose you... After all, it doesn't so much matter, so -long as we are not separated. I don't care about money, and we can have a -nice little house in London all to ourselves. And if we get too hard up, -we'll both go out as daily governesses. I think I could teach a little -music, to <a name="108.png" class="pb"></a> young children, you know; you'd -teach the older ones.' Emily looked at Julia inquiringly, and going over to -the piano, attempted to play her favourite polka. Julia, who had once -worked for her daily bread, and earned it in a sort of way by giving -music-lessons, smiled sadly at the girl's ignorance of life.</p> - -<p>'I see,' said Emily, who was quick to divine every shade of sentiment -passing in the minds of those she loved; 'you don't think I could teach -even the little children.'</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily, I hope it will never come to your having to try.'</p> - -<p>'I must do something to get a living,' she replied, looking vaguely and -wistfully into the fire. 'How unfortunate all this is—that horrid, horrid -old man. But supposing he had asked you to marry him—he wasn't nice, but -you are older than I, and if you had married him you would have become, in -a way, my stepmother. But what a charming stepmother! Oh, how I should have -loved that!'</p> - -<p>'Come, Emily, it is time to go to bed; you let your imagination run away -with you.'</p> - -<p>'Julia, you are not cross because——'</p> - -<p>'No, dear, I'm not cross. I'm only a little tired. We have talked too -long.'</p> - -<a name="109.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>Emily's allusion to music-teaching had revived in Julia all her most -painful memories. If this man were to cast them penniless out of Ashwood! -Supposing, supposing that were to happen? Starving days, pale and haggard, -rose up in her memory. What should she do, what should she do, and with -that motherless girl dependent on her for food and clothes and shelter? She -buried her face in the pillow and prayed that she might be saved from such -a destiny.</p> - -<p>If this man—this unknown creature—were to refuse to help them, she and -Emily would have to go to London, and she would have to support Emily as -best she might. She would hold to her and fight for her with all her -strength, but would she not fall vanquished in the fight; and then, and -then? The same thoughts, questions, and fears turned in her head like a -wheel, and it was not until dawn had begun to whiten the window-panes that -she fell asleep.</p> - -<p>A few days after, the post brought a letter for Julia. After glancing -hastily down the page she said: 'This is a letter from Mr. Grandly, and it -is good news. Oh, what a relief!...'</p> - -<p>'Read it.'</p> - -<blockquote> <p>'"<span class="small-caps">Dear Mrs. Bentley</span>,—Immediately I arrived in London, I set to work to find -out Mr. Price's address. It <a name="110.png" class="pb"></a> was the -easiest matter in the world, for he has a play now running at one of the -theatres. So I directed my letter to the theatre, and next morning I had a -visit from him. After explaining to him the resources of the brilliant -fortune he had come into, I told him of his uncle's intention to add a -codicil to his will, leaving Miss Watson three hundred a year; I told him -that this last will had left her entirely unprovided for. He said, at once, -that he fully agreed with me, and that he would consider what was the most -honourable course for him to take in regard to his 'cousin. This is exactly -what he said, but his manner was such that before leaving he left no doubt -in my mind whatever that he will act very generously indeed. I should not -be surprised if he settled even more than the proposed three hundred a year -on Miss Watson. He is a very quiet, thoughtful young man of about two or -three and thirty. He looks poor, and I fancy he has lived through very hard -times. He wears an air of sadness and disappointment which makes him -attractive, and his manners are gentle and refined. I tell you these -things, for I know they will interest you. I have not been able to find out -if he is married, but I am sorry to say that his play has not succeeded. I -should have found out more, but he was not in my office above ten minutes; -he had to hurry away to keep an appointment at the theatre, for, as he -explained, it was to be decided that very day if the play was to be taken -out of the bills at the end of the week. He promised to call again, and our -interview is fixed for eleven o'clock the day after to-morrow. In the -meantime take heart, for I think I am justified in telling you I feel quite -sanguine as to the result."'</p> </blockquote> - -<a name="111.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Well,' said Julia, laying down the letter, 'I don't think that anything -could be more satisfactory, and just fancy dear old Mr. Grandly being able -to describe a young man as well as that.'</p> - -<p>'He doesn't say if he is short or tall, or dark or fair.'</p> - -<p>'No, he doesn't. I think he might have told us something about his -personal appearance, but it is a great relief to hear that he is not the -vulgar Bohemian we have always understood him to be. Mr. Grandly says his -manners are refined; you might take a fancy to him after all.'</p> - -<p>'But you don't know that he isn't married. I suppose Mr. Grandly wasn't -able to find that out. I should like to know—but not because I want to -marry him or any one else; only I don't like the idea of a great, vulgar -woman, and a pack of children scampering about the place when we go.'</p> - -<p>'Do you dislike children so much, then, Emily?'</p> - -<p>'I don't know that I ever thought about them; but I'm sure I shouldn't -like his children. I dreamt of him last night. Do you believe in -dreams?'</p> - -<p>'What did you dream?'</p> - -<p>'I cannot remember, but I woke up crying, feeling more unhappy than I -ever felt in my life before. It is <a name="112.png" class="pb"></a> -curious that I should dream of him last night, and that you should receive -that letter this morning, isn't it?'</p> - -<p>'I don't see anything strange in it. Nothing more natural than that you -should dream about him, and it was certain that I should receive a letter -from Mr. Grandly; he promised to write to me in a few days.'</p> - -<p>'Then you believe what is in that letter—I don't. Something tells me -that he will not act kindly, but I don't know how.'</p> - -<p>'I'm quite sure you are wrong, Emily. Mr. Grandly would never have -written this letter unless he knew for certain that Mr. Price would do all -or more than he promised.'</p> - -<p>'I can't see from the letter that he has promised anything... Even if he -does give me three hundred a year, I shall have to leave Ashwood.'</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily, I'm cross with you: of course, if you will insist on -always looking at the melancholy side.... Now I'm going; I've to see after -the housekeeping. Are you going into the garden?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, presently.'</p> - -<p>Emily did not seem to know what she was going to do. She looked out of -the window, she lingered in the corridor; finally she wandered into the -library. The <a name="113.png" class="pb"></a> quaint, old-fashioned room -recalled her childhood to her. It was here she used to learn her lessons. -Here was the mahogany table, at which she used to sit with her governess, -learning to read and write; and there, far away at the other end of the -long room, was the round table, where lay the old illustrated editions of -<i>Gulliver's Travels</i> and <i>The Arabian Nights</i>, which she used to -run to whenever her governess left the room. And at the bottom of the -book-cases there were drawers full of strange papers; these drawers she -used to open in fear and trembling, so mysterious did they seem to her. And -there was the book-cases full of the tall folios, behind which lay, in dark -and dim recesses, stores of books which she used to pull out, expecting at -every moment to come upon long-forgotten treasures. She smiled now, as she -recalled these childish imaginings, and lifting tenderly the coarse -drugget, she looked at the great green globe which her fingers used to turn -in infantile curiosity.</p> - -<p>Then leaving the library, she roamed through the house, pausing on the -first landing to gaze on the picture of the fine gentleman in a red coat, -his hand for ever on his sword. She remembered how she used to wonder whom -he was going to kill, and how sure she used to feel that at last he would -grant his adversary <a name="114.png" class="pb"></a> his life. And close -by was the picture of the wind-mill, set on the edge of the down, with the -shepherd driving sheep in the foreground. Her whole life seemed drenched -with tears at the thought of parting with these things. Every room was full -of memories for her. She was a little girl when she came to live at -Ashwood, and the room at the top of the stairs had been her nursery. There -were the two beds; both were now dismantled and bare. It was in the little -bed in the corner that she used to sleep; it was in the old four-poster -that her nurse slept. And there was the very place, in front of the fire, -where she used to have her tea. The table had disappeared, and the grate, -how rusty it was! In the far corner, by the window, there used to be a -press, in which nurse kept tea and sugar. That press had been removed. The -other press was there still, and throwing open the doors she surveyed the -shelves. She remembered the very peg on which her hat and jacket used to -hang. And the long walks in the great park, which was to her, then, a world -of wonderment!</p> - -<p>She wandered about the old corridor, in and out of odd rooms, all -associated with her childhood—quaint old rooms, many of them lumber rooms, -full of odd corners and old cupboards, the meaning of which she <a -name="115.png" class="pb"></a> used to strive to divine. How their silence -and mystery used to thrill her little soul! Faded rooms whose mystery had -departed, but whose gloom was haunted with tenderest recollections. In one -corner was the reading-chair in which Mr. Burnett used to sit. At that time -she used to sit on his knee, and when the chair gave way beneath their -weight, he had said she was too big a girl to sit on his knee any longer. -The words had seemed to her a little cruel. She had forgotten the old -chair, but now she remembered the very moment when the servants came to -take it away.</p> - -<p>Under the window were some fragments of a china bowl which she had -broken when quite a little child. There was a hoop-stick and the hoop which -had been taken down to the blacksmith's to be mended. He had mended it, but -she did not remember ever using it again. And there was an old box of -water-colours, with which she used to colour all the uncoloured drawings in -her picture-books. Emily took the hoop-stick, the old doll, and the broken -box of water-colours, and packed them away carefully. She would be able to -find room for them in the little house in London where she and Julia were -going to live.</p> - -<p>A few days after, the post brought letters from Mr. <a name="116.png" -class="pb"></a> Grandly, one for Emily and one for Julia. Julia's letter -ran as follows:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>'<span class="small-caps">Dear Mrs. Bentley</span>,—-I write by this -post to Miss Watson, advising her that her cousin, Mr. Price, is most -anxious to make her acquaintance, and asking her to send the dog-cart -to-morrow to meet him at the station. I must take upon myself the -responsibility for this step. I have seen Mr. Price again, and he has -confirmed me in my good opinion of him. He seems most anxious, not only to -do everything right, but to make matters as pleasant and agreeable as -possible for his cousin. He has written me a letter recognising Miss -Watson's claim upon him, and constituting himself her trustee. I have not -had yet time to prepare a deed of gift, but there can be little doubt that -Miss Watson's position is now quite secure. So far so good; but more than -ever does the only clear and satisfactory way out of this miserable -business seem to me to be a marriage between Mr. Hubert Price and Miss -Watson. I have already told you that he is a nice, refined young man, of -gentlemanly bearing, good presence, and excellent speech, though a trifle -shy and reserved; and, as I have since discovered that he is not married, I -have taken upon myself the responsibility of advising him to jump into a -train and to go and tell his cousin the conclusion he has come to regarding -the will of the late Mr. Burnett. As I have said, he is a shy man, and it -was some time before I could induce him to take so decisive a step; he -wanted to meet Miss Watson in my office, but I succeeded in persuading him. -He will go down to you to-morrow by the five o'clock, and I need not -impress upon <a name="117.png" class="pb"></a> you the necessity that you -should use your influence with Miss Watson, and that his reception should -be as cordial as circumstances permit. I have only to add that I see no -need that you should show this letter to Miss Watson, for the very fact of -knowing that we desired to bring about a marriage might prejudice her -against this young man, whom she otherwise cannot fail to find -charming.'</p> </blockquote> - -<p>Hearing some one at her door, Julia put the letter away. It was -Emily.</p> - -<p>'I've just received a letter from Mr. Grandly, saying that that man is -coming here to-day, and that we are to send the dog-cart for him.'</p> - -<p>'Is not that the very best thing that——'</p> - -<p>'We cannot remain here, we must leave a note for him, or something of -that kind. I wouldn't remain here to meet him for worlds. I really -couldn't, Julia.'</p> - -<p>'And why not, Emily?'</p> - -<p>'To meet the man who is coming to turn me out of Ashwood!'</p> - -<p>'How do you know that he is coming to turn you out of Ashwood? You -imagine these things.... Do you suppose that Mr. Grandly would send him -down here if he did not know what his intentions were?'</p> - -<p>'But we shall have to leave Ashwood.'</p> - -<p>'Very likely, but not in the way you imagine. Remember, <a -name="118.png" class="pb"></a> Mr. Price is your cousin; you may like him -very much. Let's be guided by Mr. Grandly; I have not seen your letter, but -apparently he advises us to remain here and receive him.'</p> - -<p>'I don't think I can, Julia. I have misgivings.'</p> - -<p>'Have you been dreaming again?'</p> - -<p>'No; I've not been dreaming, but I have misgivings.'</p> - -<p>'You are a silly little goose, Emily. Come and give me a kiss, and -promise to take my advice.'</p> - -<p>'Dearest Julia, you do love me, don't you? Promise me that we shall not -be separated, and then I don't mind.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, dear, I promise you that, and you will promise me to try to like -your cousin?'</p> - -<p>'I'll try, Julia, but I'm awfully frightened, and—I don't think I could -like him, no matter what he was like. I feel a sort of hatred in my heart. -Don't you know what I mean?' And the girl looked questioningly into her -friend's eyes.</p> - -<a name="119.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>IX</h2> - -<p>'<span class="small-caps">I am</span> Miss Watson,' she said in her low -musical voice, 'and this is my friend, Mrs. Bentley.' Hubert bowed, and -sought for words. He found none, and the irritating silence was broken -again by Miss Watson. 'Won't you sit down?' she said.</p> - -<p>'Thank you.' He pulled off his gloves. The pained, troubled look which -he had met in Miss Watson's face seemed a reproach, and he regretted not -having followed his own idea, and invited the young lady to meet him at Mr. -Grandly's office. He glanced nervously from one lady to the other.</p> - -<p>'I hope you have had a pleasant journey, Mr. Price,' said Mrs. Bentley. -'The country is looking very beautiful just at present. Do you know this -part of the country?' Mrs. Bentley's words were very welcome, and Hubert -replied eagerly—</p> - -<p>'No; I do not know the country at all well. I have been very little out -of London for some years, but I hope now to see more of the country. This -is a beautiful place.'</p> - -<a name="120.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>At that moment he met Mrs. Bentley's eyes, and, feeling that he was -touching on delicate ground, he stopped speaking. When he turned his head, -he met Miss Watson's great sad eyes, which seemed to absorb the entire -face, fixed upon him. They expressed such depth of pathetic appeal that he -trembled with apprehension, and the instinct in him was to beg for pardon. -But it became suddenly necessary to say something, and, speaking at random, -his head full of whirling words, he said—</p> - -<p>'Of course nothing could be more sad than my poor uncle's death,—so -unexpected... Having lived so long together, you must have——' Then it was -Hubert's turn to look appealingly at Miss Watson; but her great eyes seemed -to say, 'Go on, go on; heap cruelty on cruelty!' Then he plunged -desperately, hoping to retrieve his mistakes. 'He died about a month ago. -Mr. Grandly told me I should still find you here, so I thought——'</p> - -<p>The intensity of his emotion perhaps caused Hubert to accentuate his -words, so that they conveyed a meaning different from that which he -intended. Certainly his hesitations were capable of misinterpretation, and -Miss Watson said, her voice trembling,—</p> - -<p>'Of course we know we have no right here, we are <a name="121.png" -class="pb"></a> intruding; but we are making preparations.... I daresay -that to-morrow we shall be able to——'</p> - -<p>'Oh, I beg pardon, Miss Watson; let me assure you ... I am sorry -if——'</p> - -<p>Taking a little handkerchief out of her black dress, Emily covered her -face in her thin, tiny hands. She sobbed aloud, and ran out of the room. -Hubert turned to Mrs. Bentley, his face full of consternation.</p> - -<p>'I am very sorry, but she did not give me time to speak. Will you go and -fetch her, Mrs. Bentley? I want to tell her I hope she will never leave -Ashwood. ... I believe she thinks that I came down here to ask her to leave -as soon as possible. It is really quite awful that she should think such a -thing.'</p> - -<p>'She is an exceedingly sensitive girl, and is now a little overwrought. -The events of the last month have proved too much for her.'</p> - -<p>'Mr. Grandly informed me that it was Mr. Burnett's intention to add a -codicil to his will, leaving Miss Watson three hundred a year. This money I -am prepared to give her, and I'm quite sure she is welcome to stay here as -long as she pleases. Indeed, she will do me a great favour by remaining. -Please go and tell her. I cannot bear to see a girl cry; to hear her sob -like that is quite terrible.'</p> - -<a name="122.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'You will be able to tell her yourself during the course of the evening. -I think it will come better from you.'</p> - -<p>'After what has happened, it will be very difficult for me to meet her -until she is informed that she is mistaken. I charged Mr. Grandly to -explain everything in his letter. Apparently he omitted to do so.'</p> - -<p>'He only said you wanted to see Emily on a matter of business. Of course -we did not expect such generosity.'</p> - -<p>They were standing quite close together, and suddenly Hubert became -conscious of Mrs. Bentley's beauty. Her blue eyes were at that moment full -of tender admiration for the instinctive generosity which Hubert so -unwittingly exhibited, and her eyes told what was passing in her soul. -Suddenly they both seemed to understand each other better, and, playing -with the bracelet on her arm, she said—</p> - -<p>'You do not know Emily; she is strangely sensitive. But I will go and -try to persuade her to return.... Although only distantly related, you are -cousins, after all—are you not?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, we are cousins, but the relationship is remote. Tell her -everything; beg of her to come down-stairs.'</p> - -<p>Hubert imagined Emily's little black figure thrown <a name="123.png" -class="pb"></a> upon her bed, sobbing convulsively. He was very much -agitated, and looked about the room, at first hardly seeing it. At last its -novelty drew his thoughts from his cousin's tears, and he wondered what was -the history of the house. 'The old man,' he thought, 'bought it all, -furniture and ancestors, from some ruined landowner, and attempted very few -alterations—that's clear.' Then he reproached himself. 'How could I have -been so stupid? I did not know what I was saying. I was so horribly -nervous. Those strange eyes of hers quite upset me. I do hope Mrs. Bentley -will tell her that I wish to act generously, that I am prepared to do -everything in my power to make her happy. Poor little thing! She looks as -if she had never been happy.' Again the room drew Hubert's thoughts away -from his cousin. It was still lit with the faint perfumed glow of the -sunset. The paint of the old decorations was cracked and faded. A man in a -plum-coloured coat with gold facings fixed his eyes upon him, and the tall -lady in blue satin had no doubt played there in short clothes. He walked up -and down, he turned over the music on the piano, and, hearing a step, -looked round. It was only the servant coming to tell him that his room was -ready.</p> - -<p>He dressed for dinner, hoping to find the two ladies <a name="124.png" -class="pb"></a> in the drawing-room, and it was a disappointment to find -only Mrs. Bentley there.</p> - -<p>'I have told Emily everything you said. She is very grateful, and begs -of me to thank you for your kind intentions. But I am afraid you must -excuse her absence from dinner. I really don't think she is in a fit state -to come down; she couldn't possibly take part in the conversation.'</p> - -<p>'But why? I hope she isn't ill? Had we better send for the doctor?'</p> - -<p>'Oh no; she'll be all right in the morning. She has been crying. She -suffers from depression of spirits. She is, I assure you, all right,' said -Mrs. Bentley, replying to Hubert's alarmed and questioning face. 'I assure -you there is no need for you to reproach yourself. Dinner is ready.' She -took his arm, and they went into the dining-room.</p> - -<p>No further mention was made of Mr. Burnett, of money matters, or of the -young lady up-stairs; and with considerable tact Mrs. Bentley introduced -the subject of literature, alluding gracefully to Hubert's position as a -dramatist.</p> - -<p>'Your play, <i>Divorce</i>, is now running at the Queen's Theatre?'</p> - -<p>No; I'm sorry to say it was taken out of the bills <a name="125.png" -class="pb"></a> last Saturday. Saturday night was the last -performance.'</p> - -<p>'That was not a long run. And the papers spoke so favourably of it.'</p> - -<p>'It is a play that only appeals to the few.' And, encouraged by Mrs. -Bentley's manner, Hubert told her how happy endings and comic love-scenes -were essential to secure a popular success.</p> - -<p>'I am afraid you will think me very stupid, but I do not quite -understand.'</p> - -<p>In a quiet, unobtrusive way Hubert was a graceful talker, and he knew -how to adapt his theme, and bring it within the circle of the sympathies of -his listeners. There was some similarity of temperament between himself and -Mrs. Bentley; they were both quiet, fair, meditative Saxons. She lent her -whole mind to the conversation, interested in the account that the young -man gave of his dramatic aspirations.</p> - -<p>From the dining-room window looking over the park the long road wound -through the vaporous country. The town stood in the middle distance, its -colour blotted out, and its smoke hardly distinguishable. In the room a -yellow dress turned grey, and the gold of a bracelet grew darker, and the -pink of delicate finger-nails was no longer visible. But the <a -name="126.png" class="pb"></a> pensive dusk of the dining-room, which -blackened the claret in the decanters, leaving only the faintest ruby glow -in the glass which Hubert raised to his lips, suited the tenor of the -conversation, which had wandered from the dramatic to the social side of -the question. What did he think of divorce? She sighed, and he wondered -what her story might be.</p> - -<p>They passed out of the dining-room, and stood on the gravel, watching -the night gathering in the open country. In the light of the moon, which -had just risen above the woods, the white road grew whiter, the town was -faintly seen in the tide of blue vapour, which here and there allowed a -field to appear. In the foreground a great silver fir, spiky and solitary, -rose up in the blue night. Beyond it was seen a corner of the ornamental -bridge. The island and its shadow were one black mass rising from the park -up to the level of the moon, which, a little to the right, between the town -and the island, lay reflected in a narrow strip of water. Farther away some -reeds were visible in the illusive light, and the meditative chatter of -dozing ducks stirred the silence which wrapped the country like a -cloak.</p> - -<p>Hubert and Mrs. Bentley stood looking at the landscape. The fragrance of -his cigar, the presence of <a name="127.png" class="pb"></a> the woman, the -tenderness of the hour, combined to make him strangely happy; his past life -seemed to him like a harsh, cruel pain that had suddenly ceased. More than -he had ever desired seemed to be fulfilled; the reality exceeded the dream. -What greater happiness than to live here, and with this woman! His thoughts -paused, for he had forgotten the girl up-stairs. She was not happy; but he -would make her happy—of that he was quite certain. At that moment Mrs. -Bentley said—</p> - -<p>'I hope you like your home. Is not the prospect a lovely one?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; but I was thinking at that moment of Emily. I suppose I must -accustom myself to call her by her Christian name. She is my cousin, and we -are going to live together. But, by the way, she cannot stay here alone. I -hope—I may trust that you will remain with her?'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bentley turned her face towards him; he noticed the look of -pleasure that had passed into it.</p> - -<p>'Thank you; it is very good of you. I shall be glad to remain with Emily -as long as she cares for my society. It is needless to say I shall do my -best to deserve your approval.'</p> - -<a name="128.png" class="pb"></a> - -<a name="129.png" class="pb"></a> - -<div class="image"><a href="images/image04.jpeg"><img src="images/image04-thumb.jpeg" -align="left" alt="[drawing]"></a> - -"They dined at the Café Royal." </div> - -<br> - -<a name="130.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>Her voice fell, and he heard her sigh, and in his happiness it seemed to -him to be a pity that he should find unhappiness in others.</p> - -<p>They went into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bentley asked him if he liked -music, and she went to the piano and sang some Scotch songs very sweetly. -Then she took a book from the table and bade him good-night. She was sure -that he would excuse her. She must go and see after Emily.</p> - -<p>When the door closed, the woman who had just left him seemed like some -one he had seen in a dream; and still more shadowy and illusive did the -girl seem—that pale and plaintive beauty, looking like a pastel, who had -so troubled him with her enigmatic eyes! And the lodging-house that he had -left only a few hours ago! and Rose.</p> - -<p>On Sunday he had taken Rose out to dinner. They dined at the -Café-Royal. He had tried to talk to her about Hamilton Brown's new drama, -which they had just heard would follow <i>Divorce</i>; but he was unable to -detach his thoughts from Ashwood and the ladies he was going to visit -to-morrow evening. Hubert and Rose had felt like two school-fellows, one of -whom is leaving school; the link that had bound them had snapped; -henceforth their ways lay separate; and <a name="131.png" class="pb"></a> -they were sad at parting just as school-friends are sad.</p> - -<p>'You are not rich; you offered to lend me money once. I want to lend you -some now.'</p> - -<p>'Oh yes; five shillings, wasn't it?'</p> - -<p>'It doesn't matter what the sum was—we were both very poor -then——'</p> - -<p>'And I'm still poorer now.'</p> - -<p>'All the more reason why you should allow me to help you.... Allow me to -write you a cheque for a hundred pounds. I assure you I can afford it.'</p> - -<p>'I think I had better not.... I have some things I can sell.'</p> - -<p>'But you must not sell your things. Indeed, you must allow me——'</p> - -<p>'I think I'd rather not. I shall be all right—that is to say, if Ford -engages me for Brown's new piece; and I think he will.'</p> - -<p>'But if he doesn't?'</p> - -<p>'Then,' she said, with a sweet and natural smile, 'I'll write to you.... -We have been excellent friends—comrades—have we not?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, we have indeed, and I shall never forget. There is my address; -that will always find me.'</p> - -<p>He had written a play—a play that the most competent <a name="132.png" -class="pb"></a> 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 <i>The Gipsy</i>. 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 <i>The Modern Review</i>, 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 <i>The Gipsy</i>. 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.</p> - -<p>And then, in sensuous curiosity, his thoughts turned <a name="133.png" -class="pb"></a> on the pleasure of life in this beautiful house, in the -society of two charming women.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<a name="134.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>X</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">It</span> 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.</p> - -<p>'Emily! Emily!' he called. She stopped, turned, and stood looking at -him.</p> - -<a name="135.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Yes; she told me of your kind intentions. I have to thank you.'</p> - -<p>They walked on in silence, neither knowing what to say.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'I'm afraid he doesn't like me.'</p> - -<p>'He'll soon get to know you. Are you fond of animals?'</p> - -<p>'I don't know that I am, particularly.'</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<a name="136.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'Oh, you—you wicked Jack! Who would have <a name="137.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>Hubert and Emily strolled down a long walk, wondering what they should -talk about.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<a name="138.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Do you care for flowers?'</p> - -<p>'Not very much.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'And doesn't a human being ever forgive?'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'I don't think it probable.'</p> - -<a name="139.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'But we don't know for certain,' she said, fixing her great eyes on him. -'Do we?'</p> - -<p>'We know nothing for certain,' he answered; and then he said, 'You and -Mrs. Bentley have lived a long time together?'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'I have not always been happy. But tell me more about Mrs. Bentley.'</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'I have arranged all that,' Hubert answered <a name="140.png" -class="pb"></a> hurriedly. 'I spoke to her last night, and she has -consented to remain.'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'I think her an exceedingly pleasant woman, and I'm sure we shall all -get on very well together.'</p> - -<p>'But don't you think her very handsome?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; she is a handsome woman.'</p> - -<p>Nothing more was said. Emily drew meditatively on the gravel with the -point of her parasol. The gardeners looked up from their work.</p> - -<p>'I have to go now,' she said, raising her eyes timidly, 'to feed the -swans. You would not care to go so far?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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, <a name="141.png" -class="pb"></a> 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!'</p> - -<p>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 -<a name="142.png" class="pb"></a> swans propelled their freshness to and -fro, balancing themselves in the current where they knew the bread must -surely fall.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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 -<a name="143.png" class="pb"></a> affection Emily held one hand to him. -Playing gently with his ears, she said—</p> - -<p>'Did you ever see much of Mr. Burnett?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Yes; there was,' she said in a strangely decisive tone.</p> - -<p>'May I ask——'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<p>'So long as you know that I am no longer angry <a name="144.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>They walked several yards without speaking.</p> - -<p>'Do you not think I was right? I was only eighteen, and he was over -sixty.'</p> - -<p>'It seems to me quite shocking that he could have even contemplated such -a thing.'</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'And because you refused to marry him, he did <a name="145.png" -class="pb"></a> not mention you in his will. I never heard of such -selfishness before!'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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?'</p> - -<p>'I promise you.'</p> - -<p>They had now reached the tennis-lawn. The gong <a name="146.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<a name="147.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XI</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">On</span> 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.'</p> - -<p>'So I do, but——'</p> - -<p>'He's tired of us, and we had better leave,' Emily said, abruptly.</p> - -<p>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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'We cannot stay here without you,' Emily replied; 'we are your -guests.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<a name="148.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<p>'I'm sorry, Hubert; I did not mean to offend you. I'm very unlucky. -You'll forgive me.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'I like to stop here as long as you are here,' Emily said, in a low -voice. 'That is all I meant.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Of course,' said Julia, 'we poor country folk can hardly hope to amuse -you.'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>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 <a -name="149.png" class="pb"></a> 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?'</p> - -<p>And walking together, they seemed like an Italian greyhound and a tall, -shaggy setter.</p> - -<p>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. <a name="150.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>'My dear girl, all these things belong to Mr. Price; you really cannot -take them away without asking him.'</p> - -<p>'But he won't refuse; he'll let me have anything I like.'</p> - -<p>'He can't very well refuse, so I think it would be nicer on your part -not to ask for anything.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'You'd like to take the whole house with you if you could.'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'The landing would look very bare without it.'</p> - -<p>'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 <a -name="151.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'Now, Hubert, I want you. Are you asleep?'</p> - -<p>'Asleep! No, I was only thinking.' He threw his legs over the edge of -the low chair and stood up.</p> - -<p>'If I tell you what I want, you won't refuse me, will you?'</p> - -<p>'No,' he said smilingly; 'I don't think I shall.'</p> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<p>'But what, Emily?... You can have anything you want.'</p> - -<p>'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. <a name="152.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'Did you never break your resolutions?'</p> - -<p>'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. <a name="153.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'You are full of dreams, Emily.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'And it was in this room that you dreamed all those dreams?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; in this dear old room. You see that picture: that is one of the -things I intended to ask you to give me.'</p> - -<p>'What? That old, dilapidated print?'</p> - -<p>'You mustn't abuse my picture. I used to spend hours wondering if those -horsemen galloping so madly through the wood were robbers, and if they had -robbed the castle shown between the trees. I used to wonder if they would -succeed in escaping. They wouldn't <a name="154.png" class="pb"></a> gallop -their horses like that unless they were being pursued.... Can I have the -picture?'</p> - -<p>'Of course you can. Is that—that is not all you are going to ask me -for?'</p> - -<p>'I did think of asking you for a few more things. Do you mind?'</p> - -<p>'No, not the least. The more you ask for, the more I shall be -pleased.'</p> - -<p>'Then you must come down-stairs.'</p> - -<p>They went down to the next landing. Emily stopped before a bed-room, -and, looking at Hubert shyly and interrogatively, she said—</p> - -<p>'This is my room. I don't know if it is in a fit state to show you. I'm -not a very tidy girl. I'll look first.'</p> - -<p>'Yes; it will do,' she said, drawing back. 'You can look in. I want you -to give me that wardrobe. It isn't a very handsome one, but I've used it -ever since I was a little girl; it has a hollow top, and I used to hide -things there. Do you think you can spare it?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; I think I can,' he said, smiling.</p> - -<p>Then she led him up-stairs through the old lumber rooms, picking out -here and there some generally broken and always worthless piece of -furniture, pleading for it timidly, and strangely delighted when he <a -name="155.png" class="pb"></a> nodded, granting her every request. She -asked him to pull out what she had chosen from the <i>débris</i>, and a -curious collection they made in the passage—dim and worm-eaten pictures, -small book-cases, broken vases which she proposed mending.</p> - -<p>Hubert wiped the dust from his hands and coat-sleeves.</p> - -<p>'What a lot of things you have given me! Now we shall be able to get on -nicely with our furnishing.'</p> - -<p>'What furnishing?'</p> - -<p>'The furnishing of the little house in London where Julia and I are -going to live. You said you intended to add a hundred a year to the three -hundred a year which Mr. Burnett should have left me; I don't see why you -should do such a thing, but if you do we shall have four hundred a year to -live upon. Julia says that we shall then be able to afford to give fifty -pounds a year for a house. We can get a very nice little house, she says, -for that—of course, in one of the suburbs. The great expense will be the -furnishing; we are going to do it on the hire system. I daresay one can get -very nice things in that way, but I do want to make the place look a little -like Ashwood; that is why I'm asking you for these things. I was always -fond of playing in these old lumber-rooms, and these dim old <a -name="156.png" class="pb"></a> pictures, which I don't think any one knows -anything of except myself, will remind me of Ashwood. They will look very -well, indeed, hanging round our little dining-room. You are sure you don't -want them, do you?'</p> - -<p>'No; I won't want them. I'm only too pleased to be able to give them to -you.'</p> - -<p>'You are very good, indeed you are. Look at these old haymakers; I never -saw but one little corner of this picture before; it was stowed away behind -a lot of lumber, and I hadn't the strength to pull it out.... I'm afraid -you've got yourself rather dusty.'</p> - -<p>'Oh no; it will brush off.'</p> - -<p>'I shall hang this picture over the fireplace; it will look very well -there. I daresay you don't see anything in it, but I'd sooner have these -pictures than those down-stairs. I love the picture of the windmill on the -first landing——'</p> - -<p>'Then why not have it? I'll have it taken down at once.'</p> - -<p>'No; I could not think of taking it. How would the landing look without -it? I should miss it dreadfully when I came here—for I daresay you will -ask us to visit you occasionally, when you are lonely, won't you?'</p> - -<a name="157.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'My dear Emily, whenever you like, I hope you will come here.'</p> - -<p>'And you will come and stay with us in London? Your room will be always -ready; I'll look after that. We shall feel very offended, indeed, if you -ever think of going to an hotel. Of course, you mustn't expect much; we -shall only be able to keep one servant, but we shall try to make you -comfortable, and, when you come, you'll take me to the theatres, to see one -of your own plays.'</p> - -<p>'If my play's being played, certainly. But would it be right for me to -pay you visits in London?'</p> - -<p>'They would be very wicked people indeed who saw anything wrong in it; -you are my cousin. But why do you say such things? You destroy all my -pleasure, and I was so happy just now.'</p> - -<p>'I'm afraid, Emily, your happiness hangs on a very slender thread.'</p> - -<p>She looked at him inquiringly, but feeling that it would be unwise to -attempt an explanation, he said in a different tone—</p> - -<p>'But, Emily, if you love Ashwood so well, why do you go away?'</p> - -<p>'Why do I go away? We have been here now some time.... I can't live here -always.'</p> - -<a name="158.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Why not? Why not let things go on just as they are?'</p> - -<p>'And live here with you, I and Julia?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; why not?'</p> - -<p>'We should bore you; you want to write your plays, you'd get tired of -me.'</p> - -<p>'Your being here would not prevent my writing my plays. I have been -thinking all the while of asking you to remain, but was afraid you would -not care to live here.'</p> - -<p>'Not care to live here! But you'll get tired of us; we might -quarrel.'</p> - -<p>'No; we shall never quarrel. You will be doing me a great favour by -remaining. Just fancy living alone in this great house, not a soul to speak -to all day! I'm sure I should end by going out and hanging myself on one of -those trees.'</p> - -<p>'You wouldn't do that, would you?'</p> - -<p>Hubert laughed. 'You and Mrs. Bentley will be doing me a great favour by -remaining. If you go away I shall be robbed right and left, the gardens -will go to rack and ruin, and when you come down here you won't know the -place, and then, perhaps, we shall quarrel.'</p> - -<p>'I shouldn't like Ashwood to go to rack and ruin—<a name="159.png" -class="pb"></a>and my poor flowers! And I'm sure you'd forget to feed the -swans. If you did that, I could not forgive you.'</p> - -<p>'Well, let these grave considerations decide you to remain.'</p> - -<p>'Are you really serious?'</p> - -<p>'I never was more serious in my life.'</p> - -<p>'Well then, may I run and tell Julia?'</p> - -<p>'Certainly, and I'll—no, I won't. I'll look up the housemaids and tell -them to restore this interesting collection of antiquities to their -original dust.'</p> - -<a name="160.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XII</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">He</span> was, perhaps, a little too conscious -of his happiness; and he feared to do anything that would endanger the -pleasure of his present life. It seemed to him like a costly thing which -might slip from his hand or be broken; and day by day he appreciated more -and more the delicate comfort of this well-ordered house—its brightness, -its ample rooms, the charm of space within and without, the health of -regular and wholesome meals, the presence of these two women, whose first -desire was to minister to his least wish or caprice. These, the first -spoilings he had received, combined to render him singularly happy. -Bohemianism, he often thought, had been forced upon him—it was not natural -to him, and though spiritual belief was dead, he experienced in church a -resurrection of influences which misfortune had hypnotised, but which were -stirring again into life. He was conscious again of this revival of his -early life in the evenings when Mrs. Bentley went to the piano; and when -playing a game of chess or <a name="161.png" class="pb"></a> draughts, -remembrances of the old Shropshire rectory came back, sudden, distinct, and -sweet. In these days the disease of fame and artistic achievement only sang -monotonously, plaintively, like the wind in the valleys where the wind -never wholly rests.</p> - -<p>Sometimes, when moved by the novel he was reading, he would discuss its -merits and demerits with the two women who sat by him in the quiet of the -dim drawing-room, their work on their knees, thinking of him. In the -excitement of criticism his thoughts wandered to his own work, and the -women's eyes filled with reveries, and their hands folded languidly over -their knees. He spoke without emphasis, his words seeming to drop from the -thick obsession of his dream. At ten the ladies gathered up their work, -bade him good-night; and nightly these good-nights grew tenderer, and -nightly they went up-stairs more deeply penetrated with a sense of their -happiness. But at heart he was a man's man. He hardly perceived life from a -woman's point of view; and in the long evenings which he spent with these -women he sometimes had to force himself to appear interested in their -conversation. He was as far removed from one as from the other. Emily's -wilfulness puzzled him, and he did not seem to have anything further to -talk about to Mrs. Bentley.</p> - -<a name="162.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>He missed the bachelor evenings of former days—the whisky and water, -the pipes, and the literary discussion; and as the days went by he began to -think of London; his thoughts turned affectionately towards the friends he -had not seen for so long, and at the end of July he announced his intention -of running up to town for a few days. So one morning breakfast was hurried -through; Emily was sure there was plenty of time; Hubert looked at the -clock and said he must be off; Julia ran after him with parcels which he -had forgotten; farewell signs were waved; the dog-cart passed out of sight, -and, after lingering a moment, the women returned to the drawing-room -thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>'I wonder if he'll catch the train,' said Emily, without taking her face -from the window.</p> - -<p>'I hope so; it will be very tiresome for him if he has to come back. -There isn't another train before three o'clock.'</p> - -<p>'If he missed this train he wouldn't go until to-morrow morning.... I -wonder how long he'll stay away. Supposing something happened, and he never -came back!' Emily turned round and looked at Julia in dreamy -wonderment.</p> - -<p>'Not come back at all? What nonsense you are <a name="163.png" -class="pb"></a> talking, Emily! He won't be away more than a fortnight or -three weeks.'</p> - -<p>'Three weeks! that seems a very long while. How shall we get through our -evenings?'</p> - -<p>Emily had again turned towards the window. Julia did not trouble to -reply. She smiled a little, as she paused on the threshold, for she -remembered that no more than a few weeks ago Emily had addressed to her -passionate speeches declaring her to be her only friend, and that they -would like to live together, content in each other's companionship, always -ignoring the rest of the world. Although she had not mistaken these -speeches for anything more than the nervous passion of a moment, the -suddenness of the recantation surprised her a little. Three or four days -after, the girl was in a different mood, and when they came into the -drawing-room after dinner she threw her arms about Julia's neck, saying, -'Isn't this like old times? Here we are, living all alone together, and I'm -not boring myself a bit. I never shall have another friend like you, -Julia.'</p> - -<p>'But you'll be very glad when Hubert comes back.'</p> - -<p>'There's no harm in that, is there? I should be very ungrateful if I -wasn't. Think how good he has been to us.... I'm afraid you don't like him, -Julia.'</p> - -<a name="164.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Oh, yes, I do, Emily.'</p> - -<p>'Not so much as I do.' And raising herself—she was sitting on Julia's -knees—Emily looked at Julia.</p> - -<p>'Perhaps not,' Julia replied, smiling; 'but then I never hated him as -much as you did.'</p> - -<p>A cloud came over Emily's face. 'I did hate him, didn't I? You remember -that first evening? You remember when you came up-stairs and found me -trembling in the passage—I was afraid to go to bed. ... I begged you to -allow me to sleep with you. You remember how we listened for his footstep -in the passage, as he went up to bed, and how I clung to you? Then the -dreams of that night. I never told you what my dreams were, but you -remember how I woke up with a cry, and you asked me what was the -matter?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I remember.'</p> - -<p>'I dreamt I was with him in a garden, and was trying to get away; but he -held me by a single hair, and the hair would not break. How absurd dreams -are! And the garden was full of flowers, but every time I tried to gather -them, he pulled me back by that single hair. I don't remember any more, -only something about running wildly away from him, and losing myself in a -dark forest, and there the ground <a name="165.png" class="pb"></a> was -soft like a bog, and it seemed as if I were going to be swallowed up every -moment. It was a terrible sensation. All of a sudden I woke with a cry. The -room was grey with dawn, and you said: "Emily dear, what have you been -dreaming, to cry out like that?" I was too tired and frightened to tell you -much about my dream, and next morning I had forgotten it. I did not -remember it for a long time after, but all the same some of it came true. -Don't you remember how I met Hubert next morning on the lawn? We went into -the garden and spent the best part of the morning walking about the -lake.... I don't know if I told you—I ran away when I heard him coming, -and should have got away had it not been for this tiresome dog. He called -after me, using my Christian name. I was so angry I think I hated him then -more than ever. We walked a little way, and the next thing I remember was -thinking how nice he was. I don't know how it all happened. Now I think of -it, it seems like magic. It was the day that my old donkey ran away with -the mowing machine and broke the flower-vase, the dear old thing; we had a -long talk about "Jack." And then I took Hubert into the garden and showed -him the flowers. I don't think he cares much about flowers; he pretended, -<a name="166.png" class="pb"></a> but I could see it was only to please me. -Then I knew that he liked me, for when I told him I was going to feed the -swans, he said he loved swans and begged to be allowed to come too. I don't -think a man would say that if he didn't like you, do you?'</p> - -<p>Emily's mind seemed to contain nothing but memories of Hubert. What he -had said on this occasion, how he had looked at her on another. The -conversation paused and Emily sunned herself in the enchantment of -recollection, until at last breaking forth again, she said—</p> - -<p>'Have you noticed how Ethel Eastwick goes after him? And the odd part of -it is, that she can't see that he dislikes her. He thinks nothing of her -singing; he remained talking to me in the conservatory the whole time. I -asked him to come into the drawing-room, but he pretended to misunderstand -me, and asked me if I felt a draught. He said, "Let me get you a shawl." I -said, "I assure you, Hubert, I don't feel any draught." But he would not -believe me, and said he could not allow me to sit there without something -on my shoulders. I begged of him not to move, for I knew that Ethel would -never forgive me if I interrupted her singing; but he said <a -name="167.png" class="pb"></a> he could get me a wrap without interrupting -any one. He opened the conservatory door, ran across the lawn round to the -front door, and came back with—what do you think? With two wraps instead -of one; one was mine, and the other belonged to—I don't know who it -belonged to. So I said, "Oh, what ever shall we do? I cannot let you go -back again. If any one was to come in and find me alone, what ever would -they think!" Hubert said, "Will you come with me? A walk in the garden will -be pleasanter than sitting in the conservatory." I didn't like going at -first, but I thought there couldn't be much harm.'</p> - -<p>It seemed to Emily very terrible and very wonderful, and she experienced -throughout her numbed sense a strange, thrilling pain, akin to joy, and she -sat, her little fragile form lost in the arm-chair, her great eyes fixed in -ecstasy, seeing still the dark garden with the great star risen like a -phantom above the trees. That evening had been to her a wonder and an -enchantment, and her pausing thoughts dwelt on the moment when the distant -sound of a bell reached their ears, and the bell came nearer, clanging -fiercely in the sonorous garden. Then they saw a light—some one had come -for them with a lantern—a joke, a suitable pleasantry, and amid joyous -laughter, watching the setting moon, <a name="168.png" class="pb"></a> they -had gone back to the tiled house, where dancers still passed the -white-curtained windows. Hubert had sat by her at supper, serving her with -meat and drink. In the sway of memory she trembled and started, looking in -the great arm-chair like a little bird that the moon keeps awake in its -soft nest. She no longer wished to tell Julia of that night in the garden; -her sensation of it lay far beyond words; it was her secret, and it shone -through her dreamy youth even as the star had shone through the heavens -that night. Suddenly she said—</p> - -<p>'I wonder what Hubert is doing in London? I wonder where he is now?'</p> - -<p>'Now? It is just nine. I suppose he's in some theatre.'</p> - -<p>'I suppose he goes a great deal to the theatre. I wonder who he goes -with. He has lots of friends in London—actresses, I suppose; he knows them -who play in his plays. He dines at his club——'</p> - -<p>'Or at a restaurant.'</p> - -<p>'I wonder what a restaurant is like; ladies dine at restaurants, don't -they?'</p> - -<p>As Julia was about to make reply, the servant brought her a letter. She -opened the envelope, and took out a long, closely-written letter; she -turned it <a name="169.png" class="pb"></a> over to see the signature, and -then looking toward Emily, she said, with a pleasant smile—</p> - -<p>'Now I shall be able to answer your questions better; this letter is -from Mr. Price.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, what does he say? Read it.'</p> - -<p>'Wait a moment, let me glance through it first; it is very difficult to -read.' A few moments after, Julia said, 'There's not much that would -interest you in the letter, Emily; it is all about his play. He says he -would have written before if he had not been so busy looking out for a -theatre, and engaging actors and actresses. He hopes to start rehearsing -next week.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"I say I hope, because there are still some parts of the play which do -not satisfy me, particularly the third act. I intend to work steadily on -the play till, next Thursday, five or six hours every day; I am in perfect -health and spirits, and ought to be able to get the thing right. Should I -fail to satisfy myself, or should any further faults appear when we begin -to rehearse the piece, I shall dismiss my people, pack up my traps, and -return to Ashwood. There I shall have quiet; here, people are continually -knocking at my door, and I cannot deny my friends the pleasure of seeing -me, if that is a pleasure. But at Ashwood, as I say, I shall be sure of -quiet, and can easily finish the play this autumn, and February is a better -time than September to produce a play."'</p> </blockquote> - -<a name="170.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Then he goes on,' said Julia, 'to explain the alterations he -contemplates making. There's no use reading you all that.'</p> - -<p>'I suppose you think I should not understand.'</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily, if you want to read the letter, there it is.'</p> - -<p>'I don't want to see your letter.'</p> - -<p>'What do you mean, Emily?'</p> - -<p>'Nothing, only I think it rather strange that he didn't write to -me.'</p> - -<p>Some days after, Emily took up the book that Julia had laid down. -'"Shakespeare's Plays." I suppose you are reading them so that you'll be -able to talk to him better.'</p> - -<p>'I never thought of such a thing, Emily.' At the end of a long silence -Emily said—</p> - -<p>'Do you think clever men like clever women?'</p> - -<p>'I don't know. Some say they do, some say they don't. I believe that -really clever men, men of genius, don't.'</p> - -<p>'I wonder if Hubert is a man of genius. What do you think?'</p> - -<p>'I really am not capable of expressing an opinion on the matter.'</p> - -<p>Another week passed away, and Emily began to <a name="171.png" -class="pb"></a> assume an air of languor and timid yearning. One day she -said—</p> - -<p>'I wonder he doesn't write. He hasn't answered my letter yet. Has he -answered yours?'</p> - -<p>'He has not written to me again. He hasn't time for letter-writing. He -is working night and day at his play.'</p> - -<p>'I suppose he'd never think of coming down by the morning train. He'd be -sure to come by the five o'clock.'</p> - -<p>'He won't come without writing. He'd be sure to write for the -dog-cart.'</p> - -<p>'I suppose so. There's no use in looking out for him.'</p> - -<p>But, notwithstanding her certitude on the point, Emily could not help -choosing five o'clock as the time for a walk, and Julia noticed that the -girl's feet seemed to turn instinctively towards the lodge. Often she would -leave the flowers she was tending on the terrace, and stand looking through -the dim, sun-smitten landscape toward the red-brown spot, which was -Southwater, in the middle of the long plain.</p> - -<a name="172.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XIII</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">Hubert</span> felt called upon to entertain his -friends, and one evening they all sat dining at Hurlingham in the long -room. The conversation, as usual, had been about books and pictures.</p> - -<p>It was the moment when strings of lanterns were hoisted from tree to -tree. In front of a large space of sky the coloured globes were crude and -trivial; but in the shadows of the trees by the river, where the mist rose -into the branches, they had begun to awaken the first impression of -melancholy and the sadness of <i>fête</i>. It was the moment when the -great trees hung heavy and motionless, strangely green and solemn beneath a -slate-coloured sky; and the plaintive waltz cried on Hungarian -fiddle-strings, till it seemed the soul of this feminine evening. The -fashionable crowd had moved out upon the lawn; the white dresses were -phantom blue, and the men's coats faded into obscure masses, darkening the -gathering shadows. It was the moment when voices soften, and every heart, -overpowered with <a name="173.png" class="pb"></a> yearning, is impelled to -tell of grief and disillusion; and every moment the wail of the fiddles -grew more unbearable, tearing the heart to its very depths.</p> - -<p>Author and actor-manager walked up the lawn puffing at their cigars. The -others sat watching, knowing that the opportunity had come for criticism of -their friend.</p> - -<p>'He does not change much,' said Harding. 'Circumstances haven't affected -him. A year ago he lived in a garret re-writing his play <i>Divorce</i>. He -now rewrites <i>Divorce</i> in a handsome house in Sussex.'</p> - -<p>'I thought he had finished his play,' said Thompson. 'I heard that he -was going to take a theatre and produce it himself.'</p> - -<p>'But did you not hear him say at dinner that he was re-writing as he -rehearsed? I met one of the actors yesterday. He doesn't know what to make -of it. He gets a new part every week to learn.'</p> - -<p>'Do you think he'll ever produce it?'</p> - -<p>'I doubt it. At the last moment he'll find that the third act doesn't -satisfy him, and will postpone the production till the spring.'</p> - -<p>'What do you think of his work?'</p> - -<p>'Very intelligent, but a little insipid—like himself. Look at him. -<i>Il est bien l'homme de ses ouvres</i>. There is something dry about him, -and his writings are <a name="174.png" class="pb"></a> like himself—hard, -dry and wanting in personal passion.'</p> - -<p>'Yet he talks charmingly, with vivacity and intelligence, and he is so -full of appreciation of Shakespeare, Goethe, and such genuine love for -antiquity.'</p> - -<p>'I've heard him talk Shakespeare, Goethe, and Ibsen,' said Harding, 'but -I never heard him say anything new, anything personal. It seems to me that -you mistake quotation for perception. He assimilates, but he originates -nothing. He has read a great deal; he is covered with literature like a -rock with moss and lichen. He's appreciative, I will say that for him. He -would make a capital editor, or a tutor, or a don, an Oxford don. He would -be perfectly happy as a don; he could read up the German critics and -expound Sophocles. He would be perfectly happy as a don. As it is, he is -perfectly miserable.'</p> - -<p>'There was a fellow who had a studio over mine,' said Thompson. 'He had -been in the army and used to paint a bit. The academy by chance hung a -portrait, so he left the army and turned portrait-painter. One day he saw a -picture by Velasquez, and he understood how horrid were the red things he -used to send to the academy. He used to come down to see me; he used to -say, "I wish I had never seen a picture, by <a name="175.png" -class="pb"></a> Gad, it is driving me out of my mind." Poor chap, I wanted -him to go back to the army. I said, Why paint? no one forces you to; it -makes you miserable; don't do so any more. When you have anything to say, -art is a joy; when you haven't, it is a curse to yourself and to -others.'</p> - -<p>Philipps, the editor of <i>The Cosmopolitan</i>, turned towards Harding, -and he said—</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'I have never heard of him being in love,' said Harding. 'I should say -that he had been entirely uninfluenced by women.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<a name="176.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'What an excellent character he would make in a novel! A drama of -sterility,' said Phillips.</p> - -<p>'Or the dramas which they bring about,' said Harding.</p> - -<p>'Yes, or the dramas they bring about. But what drama can Price bring -about—he shuts himself up in a <a name="177.png" class="pb"></a> room and -tries to write a play,' said Phillips. 'I don't see how he can dramatise -any life but his own.'</p> - -<p>'All deviations from the normal tend to bring about drama,' said -Harding.</p> - -<p>'Then, why don't you do a Hubert Price in a book? It would be most -interesting. Do you think you ever will?'</p> - -<p>'I don't think so.'</p> - -<p>'Why not? Because he is a friend of yours, and you would not -like——'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'What kind of man?' said Phillips, and the five or six writers and -painters leaned forward to listen to Harding.</p> - -<p>'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 <a -name="178.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'A sort of constipated Browning,' said Phillips.</p> - -<p>'Exactly,' said Harding.</p> - -<p>'And would you have him married?' asked John Norton.</p> - -<p>'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 <a name="179.png" class="pb"></a> chamber. Something of the -poet's sterility would have descended upon them.'</p> - -<p>'That is how you imagine <i>un génie raté</i>,' said Phillips. 'Your -conception is clear enough; why don't you write the book?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'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; <a -name="180.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<a name="181.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XIV</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">One</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>The Gipsy</i>. If it did -not come right then, <a name="182.png" class="pb"></a> 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 <i>The Gipsy</i> until <a name="183.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <a name="184.png" class="pb"></a> -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.</p> - -<p>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 <a name="185.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>But without warning his dreams were broken by a sudden thought, and he -said—</p> - -<p>'Another time, I think it will be better, my dear Emily, that Mrs. -Bentley should take you out.'</p> - -<p>'Why should you not take me out?... I suppose you don't care to—I bore -you.'</p> - -<p>'No; on the contrary, I enjoy it—I like to see you amused; but I think -you should have a proper chaperon.'</p> - -<p>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 <a name="186.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily, I could not think of such a thing this morning. I am -very busy—indeed I am.'</p> - -<p>'What are you doing? Nothing very important, I can see. You are only -writing your play. You might come with me.'</p> - -<p>'My play is as important to me as a visit to the Eastwicks is to you,' -he answered, smiling.</p> - -<a name="187.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'I have promised Edith.... I really do wish you would come.'</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily, it is quite impossible: do let me get on with my -work!'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'You don't care to talk to me. I am not clever enough for you.'</p> - -<p>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. <a name="188.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>'Oh, we shall be back in plenty of time; I'll leave you at the rectory -on our way home.'</p> - -<p>'Thank you, Mr. Price; but I do not think I can go.'</p> - -<p>'And why, may I ask?'</p> - -<p>'Well, perhaps Emily would like to go.'</p> - -<p>'Emily has a cold, and it would be folly of her to venture a long drive -on a cold morning.'</p> - -<p>'My cold is quite well.'</p> - -<p>'You were complaining before dinner how bad it was.'</p> - -<p>'If you don't want to take me, say so.' Tears were now streaming down -her cheeks.</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily, I am only too pleased to have you with me; I was only -thinking of your cold.'</p> - -<p>'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. <a name="189.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>'I hope the drive won't tire you; you know the meet is at least five -miles from here.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'I hope you are well wrapped up about the knees,' said Mrs. Bentley.</p> - -<p>'Oh yes, thank you; Hubert is looking after me.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'I hope Julia was not disappointed. I know she wanted to come; -but——'</p> - -<p>'But what?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>Hubert did not answer, and Emily looked at him <a name="190.png" -class="pb"></a> inquiringly. At last she said, 'I suppose you don't think -so?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily, how can you say such things? I never heard—— She is -always ready to sacrifice herself for you.'</p> - -<p>'You think so. She has a knack of pretending to be more unselfish than -another; but she is in reality intensely selfish.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<a name="191.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>Hubert was somewhat shocked. The conversation paused.</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Do you like tall women?'</p> - -<p>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 <a name="192.png" class="pb"></a> straining hounds, one within a dozen -yards of the poor little beast, now running in a circle, uttering the most -plaintive and pitiful cries.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <a name="193.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<a name="194.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XV</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">One</span> 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.</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'What a lot of trouble you do take! Does every one who writes plays take -so much trouble?'</p> - -<p>'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 <a -name="195.png" class="pb"></a> 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——'</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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 <a -name="196.png" class="pb"></a> book, and then for some work which she said -had dropped out of her basket.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'If you have written out <i>The Gipsy</i> 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.'</p> - -<p>'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 <i>Divorce</i> 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.'</p> - -<p>'I'm sorry,' said Mrs. Bentley, 'that I am not Mr. Harding. It must be -very gratifying to one's feelings <a name="197.png" class="pb"></a> to be -able to help to solve a literary difficulty, particularly if one cannot -write oneself.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'Then come up to my study. We shall have just time to get through the -first act before dinner.'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bentley hesitated; and, noticing her hesitation, Hubert looked -surprised. At that moment Emily said—</p> - -<p>'May I not come too?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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!'</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily!'</p> - -<p>'Don't touch me! Go to her; shut yourself up together. Don't think of -me. I can bear it no <a name="198.png" class="pb"></a> 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—</p> - -<p>'That poor child will cry herself into her grave. Have you noticed how -poorly she is looking?'</p> - -<p>'Not noticed! But you do not know half of it. It has been going on now a -long time. You don't know half!'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'It is worse than you think. You have not noticed that we hardly speak -now?'</p> - -<p>'You—who were such friends—surely not!'</p> - -<p>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 <a name="199.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Have you any proposal to make regarding her? <a name="200.png" -class="pb"></a> I need hardly say that I'm ready to carry out any idea of -yours.'</p> - -<p>'You know what the cause of it is, I suppose?'</p> - -<p>'I do not know; I am not certain. I daresay I'm mistaken.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'But what do you propose?'</p> - -<a name="201.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Unless you intend to marry her—forgive me for speaking so plain—there -is only one thing to do. I must leave.'</p> - -<p>'No, no; you must not leave! She could not live alone with me. But does -she want you to leave?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'It is very strange.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, it is very strange; but, opposed though she be to all thoughts of -it, I must leave.'</p> - -<p>'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. <a name="202.png" class="pb"></a> 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?'</p> - -<p>'I promise.'</p> - -<p>'Thank you. I am deeply obliged to you.'</p> - -<p>At the end of a long silence, Hubert said, 'Will you not come up-stairs, -and let me read you the first act?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<a name="203.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XVI</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">The</span> 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 <a -name="204.png" class="pb"></a> in Dresden china. Hubert had bought these -works of art on the occasion of his last visit to London, about two months -ago.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <a name="205.png" class="pb"></a> -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.</p> - -<p>Any distraction from the haunting pain, now become chronic, is welcome, -and he answers with a glad 'Come in!' the knock at the door.</p> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<p>Hubert laughed. 'I find such details far more agreeable than literature. -I can do nothing with my play.'</p> - -<a name="206.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Aren't you getting on this morning?'</p> - -<p>'No, not very well.'</p> - -<p>'What do you think of turbot?'</p> - -<p>'I think turbot very nice. Emily likes turbot.'</p> - -<p>'Very well, then. I'll order turbot.'</p> - -<p>As Mrs. Bentley was about to withdraw, she said, 'I'm sorry you are not -getting on. What stops you now? That second act?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'I really don't think I can stay. If Emily heard that you had been -reading your play to me——'</p> - -<p>'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 <a name="207.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'You must not go! I really want you. I assure you that your opinion will -be of value.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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!'</p> - -<p>'You do not know how she suffers. Let me go; spare her the pain.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<a name="208.png" class="pb"></a> - -<div class="image"><a href="images/image05.jpeg"><img src="images/image05-thumb.jpeg" -align="left" alt="[drawing]"></a> - -"Sometimes, in an exciting passage, the hands were clasped." </div> - -<br> - -<a name="209.png" class="pb"></a> - -<a name="210.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'Ah,' he said, after two hours' delightful talk, 'how much I'm indebted -to you! At last I see my mistakes; <a name="211.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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. <a name="212.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'I think I shall go up with you. I want to go to London,' said -Emily.</p> - -<p>'It will be very nice if you'll come; but we cannot both stay with the -Eastwicks; they have only one spare room.'</p> - -<p>'I suppose you'd like me to go to an hotel.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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, <a -name="213.png" class="pb"></a> and was preparing to leave the room when -Emily said—</p> - -<p>'The hotel will suit you very well. You'll be free to see Hubert -whenever you like.'</p> - -<p>Hubert looked up quickly, hoping Mrs. Bentley would not answer, but -before he could make a sign she said—</p> - -<p>'What do you mean, Emily? I did not know that Hubert was going to -London.'</p> - -<p>'You hardly expect me to believe that, do you?'</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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 <a name="214.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>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 -<a name="215.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <a name="216.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'No, no, I beg of you!'</p> - -<p>'I must speak to you!' He laid his hand upon her <a name="217.png" -class="pb"></a> arm, and said, 'I beg of you. I have something to say—it -is of great importance. Come in.'</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<p>'Well, what is it?'</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'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—</p> - -<p>'This cannot go on; our lives are being made unbearable. You agree with -me—do you not?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<a name="218.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'You know very well, Julia, that that is impossible.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'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 <a -name="219.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'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 <a name="220.png" class="pb"></a> write my -play. A woman's influence is necessary to every undertaking. The greatest -writers owe their best inspiration to——'</p> - -<p>'Her heart is as closely set upon you as yours is upon your play.'</p> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<p>Julia looked at him one moment doubtingly, inquiringly. Then she -said—</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Or cut out in time.'</p> - -<p>'I must leave.'</p> - -<p>'That will not mend matters.'</p> - -<p>'My departure will, at all events, remove all cause for jealousy; and -when I am gone you may learn to love her.'</p> - -<p>'No; that I swear is impossible!'</p> - -<p>'You very likely think so now; but I'm bound to give her every chance of -winning you.'</p> - -<p>'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 <a name="221.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>'Why should you not marry her?' Julia said, at the end of a long -silence. 'Some people think her quite a pretty girl.'</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<p>'There is nothing for it but my departure, and the sooner the -better.'</p> - -<p>'You are not in earnest? You are surely not in earnest?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, indeed I am.'</p> - -<p>'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 <a name="222.png" class="pb"></a> any liking I may have ever -had for her. You'll have to take her with you.'</p> - -<p>'She would not come with me. I spoke to her once of a trip abroad.'</p> - -<p>'And she refused?'</p> - -<p>'She said she only wanted things to go on just as they are.'</p> - -<a name="223.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XVII</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">In</span> 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.</p> - -<p>'No, thank you; I want nothing; I have no wish to see anything. I like -the dark.'</p> - -<p>'Have you been asleep?'</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'Aren't you coming down to dinner, Emily? Come, <a name="224.png" -class="pb"></a> let me pour out some water for you. When you have bathed -your eyes——'</p> - -<p>'I don't want any dinner.'</p> - -<p>'It will look very strange if you remain in your room the whole evening. -You do not want to vex him, do you?'</p> - -<p>'I suppose he is very angry with me. But I did not mean to vex him. Is -he very angry?'</p> - -<p>'No, he is not angry at all; he is merely distressed. You distress him -dreadfully when——'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'I assure you, Emily, you are mistaken. Mr. Price and I have no secrets -whatever.'</p> - -<p>'Why should you tell me these falsehoods? They make me so -miserable.'</p> - -<p>'Falsehoods, Emily! When did you ever know me to tell a falsehood?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<a name="225.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>Emily did not answer. At last she said, breaking the silence -abruptly—</p> - -<p>'Is he very angry? Has he gone to his study? Do you think he will come -down to dinner?'</p> - -<p>'I suppose he'll come down for dinner.'</p> - -<p>'Will you go and ask him?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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 <a -name="226.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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....'</p> - -<p>'But tell me, Emily, what is it you suspect? What do you accuse me -of?'</p> - -<p>'I accuse you of nothing. Can't you understand that things may go wrong -without it being any one's fault in particular?'</p> - -<p>Julia wondered how Emily could think so wisely. She seemed to have grown -wiser in her grief. But <a name="227.png" class="pb"></a> grief helped her -no further in her instinctive perception of the truth, and she resumed her -puerile attack on her friend.</p> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'I would do anything in the world for you, Emily. I am your best friend, -and yet——'</p> - -<a name="228.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'I have no friend. I don't believe in friends. You think people are your -friends, and then you find they are not.'</p> - -<p>'How can I convince you of the injustice of your suspicions?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'For you, perhaps.'</p> - -<p>'Emily, Emily! ... You should try to understand things better.'</p> - -<p>'I feel them, even if I don't understand.'</p> - -<p>'Admit that you were wrong about the ring. Have I not convinced you that -you were wrong?'</p> - -<p>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?'</p> - -<p>The directness of the question took Julia by surprise, <a name="229.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<p>'Then it is just as I thought!' Emily cried; 'he wants to get rid of -me!'</p> - -<p>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 <a -name="230.png" class="pb"></a> 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—</p> - -<p>'Oh, Emily dear, he never asked me to marry him; he does not love me at -all! Why will you not believe me?'</p> - -<p>'Because I cannot!' she cried passionately. 'I only ask to be left -alone.'</p> - -<p>'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 <a name="231.png" class="pb"></a> 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—</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'No, no! you mustn't leave; I don't want you to <a name="232.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'I suppose you have told him that I am looking thin and ill.... Men like -tall, big, healthy women like you—don't they?'</p> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<a name="233.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'But is he coming down to dinner? I thought you said he had gone to his -study; sometimes he dines there.'</p> - -<p>'I can tell you nothing about Mr. Price. I don't know whether he'll dine -up-stairs or down.'</p> - -<p>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.'</p> - -<p>'Very well; I shall be down directly.'</p> - -<p>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!'</p> - -<p>'There's nothing to confide....'</p> - -<p>'You mustn't give way like this; you really mustn't. Come down and have -some dinner.'</p> - -<p>'It is no use; I couldn't eat anything.'</p> - -<a name="234.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'No; he will spend the whole evening in his room; we shall not see him -again.'</p> - -<p>'But if I go and ask him to come; if I tell him——'</p> - -<p>'No; do not speak to him about me; he'd only say that I was interfering -with his work.'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Emily had begun to undress; and, tearing off her things, she hardly took -more than five minutes to get into bed.</p> - -<p>'Shall I light a candle?' Julia asked before leaving.</p> - -<p>'No, thank you.'</p> - -<a name="235.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Shall I send you up some soup?'</p> - -<p>'No; I could not touch it.'</p> - -<p>'You are not going to remain in the dark? Let me light a -night-light?'</p> - -<p>'No, thank you; I like the dark.'</p> - -<a name="236.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XVIII</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">Hubert</span> 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—</p> - -<p>'What do you think, Doctor? Is she seriously ill?'</p> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<p>'But what, doctor?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'And supposing it were so, what would be your advice? Change of air and -scene?'</p> - -<p>'Certainly.'</p> - -<p>'Have you spoken to her on the subject?'</p> - -<a name="237.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Yes; but she says she will not leave Ashwood.'</p> - -<p>'We cannot send her away by force. What would you advise us to do?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, she does; but she has been ordered chloral. Any harm in that?'</p> - -<p>'In her case, it is a necessity; but do you think she takes it?'</p> - -<p>'Oh yes, she has been taking choral.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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!'</p> - -<p>'Believe me,' she said, raising her arms in a beautiful feminine -movement, 'I do not wish to make you unhappy.'</p> - -<p>'Then why do you persist? Why do you refuse <a name="238.png" -class="pb"></a> to take the only step that may lead us out of this -difficulty?'</p> - -<p>'How can you ask me? Oh, Hubert, I did not think you could be so cruel! -It would be a shameful action.'</p> - -<p>It was the first time she had used his Christian name, and his face -changed expression.</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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.'</p> - -<p>'Julia, do not say you never will?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<a name="239.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'I'm afraid I'm interrupting you,' she said.</p> - -<p>'No, Emily; pray do not go away. We were only talking about you.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'A little patience, Emily. You will not have me here much longer.'</p> - -<a name="240.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'I suppose that I am so disagreeable that you cannot live with me. Why -should you go away?'</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily, you must not excite yourself. The doctor——'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'We do not get on together as we used to—that is all, Emily. I can -please you no longer.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Emily, dear, everything shall be as you like it.'</p> - -<p>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 <a name="241.png" class="pb"></a> 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—</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'He said that you ought to have a change—that you should go south -somewhere.'</p> - -<p>'And you agree with him that I ought to go away?'</p> - -<p>'Is he not the best judge?—the doctor's orders!'</p> - -<p>'Then you, too, have learnt to hate me. You, too, want to send me -away?'</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily, I only want to do as you like. You asked me what the -doctor said, and I told you.'</p> - -<p>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 <a name="242.png" class="pb"></a> 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—</p> - -<p>'But tell me, Emily, how are you feeling? You are, after all, the best -judge.'</p> - -<p>'I feel rather weak. I should get strong enough if——'</p> - -<p>She paused, as if waiting for Hubert to ask her to finish the sentence. -But he hurriedly turned the conversation.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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 <a name="243.png" class="pb"></a> only selfishness. No one has -ever loved me. I feel so utterly alone in this world—that is why I am -unhappy.'</p> - -<p>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—-</p> - -<p>'But even if I wished to go abroad, with whom could I go?'</p> - -<p>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——'</p> - -<a name="244.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'No, no, I am not mistaken! She hates me, and I cannot bear her. It is -she who is making me ill.'</p> - -<p>'Hate you! Why should she hate you?'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'I would give anything to see you friends again.'</p> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<p>'Emily dear, these are but idle fancies. You are mistaken.'</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<a name="245.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Julia and I can never be friends again—that is impossible.'</p> - -<p>'But what has she done?' Hubert asked incautiously, regretting his words -as soon as he had uttered them.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'I am sure she never said any such thing. You are entirely mistaken. -Mrs. Bentley is incapable of such wickedness.'</p> - -<p>'A woman, when she is jealous, will say anything. If she did not say it, -can you tell me how it got about?'</p> - -<p>'I don't believe any one ever said such a thing.'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'If you think this is so, had she not better leave?'</p> - -<p>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. <a name="246.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Is that really true? I thought no one cared for me. You must care for -me a little to speak like that.'</p> - -<p>'Of course I care for you, Emily.'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Is that all? Then why do people say you are going to marry her?'</p> - -<p>'But nobody ever said so.'</p> - -<p>'Oh yes, they have. Is it true?'</p> - -<p>'No, Emily; it is not true.'</p> - -<a name="247.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Are you quite sure?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, quite sure.'</p> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<p>'I what?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>Hubert shook his head.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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.'</p> - -<p>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 <a -name="248.png" class="pb"></a> 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—</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'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 <a -name="249.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>'Julia!'</p> - -<p>'You have left Emily. How did you leave her?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Really! What induced such a change in her? Did you——'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Did she ask you?'</p> - -<p>'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!'</p> - -<p>'Quite true, and we have been reproaching ourselves for our -selfishness.'</p> - -<p>'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!'</p> - -<a name="250.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'She is very young, and the young are naturally egotistic.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<p>'I think we had better turn back.'</p> - -<p>The suggestion filled Hubert's heart with rushing pain, and he -answered—</p> - -<p>'Why should we return? I cannot go back to that girl. Oh, the miserable -life we are leading!'</p> - -<p>'What can we do? We must go back; we cannot <a name="251.png" -class="pb"></a> live in a tent by the wayside. We have no tent to set -up.'</p> - -<p>'Come to London, and be my wife.'</p> - -<p>'No,' she said; 'that is impossible. Let us not speak of it.'</p> - -<p>Hubert did not answer; and, turning their faces homeward, they walked -some way in silence. Suddenly Hubert said—</p> - -<p>'No; it is impossible. I cannot return. There is no use. I'm at the end -of my tether. I cannot.'</p> - -<p>She looked at him in alarm.</p> - -<p>'Hubert,' she said, 'this is folly! I cannot return without you.'</p> - -<p>'You ruin my life; you refuse me the only happiness. I'm more wretched -than I can tell you!'</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'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!'</p> - -<a name="252.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Perhaps you are right.'</p> - -<p>An empty fly, returning to the town, passed them. The fly-man raised his -whip.</p> - -<p>'Take you to the railway station in ten minutes!'</p> - -<p>Hubert spoke quietly; nevertheless there was a strange nervousness in -his eyes when he said—</p> - -<p>'Fate comes to help me; she offers us the means of escape. You will not -refuse, Julia?'</p> - -<p>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 <a -name="253.png" class="pb"></a> familiar appears strange and grotesque. -Then, gathering all her resolution, she said—</p> - -<p>'No, no; it is impossible! Come back, come back.'</p> - -<p>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——'</p> - -<p>'No, no, Hubert, I cannot; let us return home.'</p> - -<p>'I go back to Ashwood! If I did, I should commit suicide.'</p> - -<p>'Don't speak like that.... Where will you go?'</p> - -<p>'I shall travel.... I shall visit Italy and Greece.... I shall live -abroad.'</p> - -<p>'You are not serious?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I am, Julia. That cab may not take both, but it certainly will -take one of us away from Ashwood, and for ever.'</p> - -<p>'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 <a -name="254.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>He had stopped in the middle of the road, and they walked slowly past, -through a great puddle, which drenched their feet.</p> - -<p>'Get in, Julia. Shall I open the door?'</p> - -<p>'No, no; think of Emily. I cannot, Hubert,—I cannot; it would kill -her.'</p> - -<p>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 <a -name="255.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'Say you will come with me!' Hubert whispered; and all the while the -rain came down heavier.</p> - -<p>'No, no, Hubert.... I cannot; I promised Emily that I never would. I am -going back.'</p> - -<p>'Then we must say good-bye. I will not go back.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<a name="256.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'Horrible weather, sir; shan't be long a-takin' you to Southwater. What -part of the town be yer going to—the railway station?'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'Drive me to the station as fast as you can. Catch the half-past five to -London, and I'll give you five shillings.'</p> - -<a name="257.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>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—</p> - -<p>'Dearest Julia, you are what I love best in the world.'</p> - -<p>The words thrilled her a little, but all the while she saw Emily's eyes -and heard her voice.</p> - -<p>Hubert, however, was full of happiness—the sweet happiness of the -quiet, docile creature that has at last obtained what it loves.</p> - -<a name="258.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XIX</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">Emily</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <a name="259.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <a name="260.png" class="pb"></a> hoped he -would not care to eat it; he would not if he knew she was going to leave -him.</p> - -<p>In the drawing-room he insisted on being nursed; and alone, amid the -faded furniture, watched over by the old portraits, her pale face fixed and -her pale hands clasping her beloved dog, she sat thinking, brooding over -the unhappiness, the incurable unhappiness, of her little life. She was -absorbed in self, and did not rail against Hubert, or even Julia. Their -personalities had somehow dropped out of her mind, and merely represented -forces against which she found herself unable any longer to contend. Nor -was she surprised at what had happened. There had always been in her some -prescience of her fate. She and unhappiness had always seemed so -inseparable, that she had never found it difficult to believe that this -last misfortune would befall her. She had thought it over, and had decided -that it would be unendurable to live any longer, and had borne many a -terrible insomnia so that she might collect sufficient chloral to take her -out of her misery; and now, as she sat thinking, she remembered that she -had never, never been happy. Oh! the miserable evenings she used to spend, -when a child, between her father and mother, who could not agree—why, she -never understood. But she used <a name="261.png" class="pb"></a> to have to -listen to her mother addressing insulting speeches to her father in a calm, -even voice that nothing could alter; and, though both were dead and years -divided her from that time, the memory survived, and she could see it all -again—that room, the very paper on the wall, and her father being -gradually worked up into a frenzy.</p> - -<p>When she was left an orphan, Mr. Burnett had adopted her, and she -remembered the joy of coming to Ashwood. She had thought to find happiness -there; but there, as at home, fate had gone against her, and she was hardly -eighteen when Mr. Burnett had asked her to marry him. She had loved that -old man, but he had not loved her; for when she had refused to marry him he -had broken all his promises and left her penniless, careless of what might -become of her. Then she had given her whole heart to Julia, and Julia, too, -had deceived her. And had she not loved Hubert?—no one would ever know how -much; she did not know herself,—and had he not lied to her? Oh, it was -very cruel to deceive a poor little girl in this heartless way! There was -no heart in the world, that was it—and she was all heart; and her heart -had been trampled on ever since she could remember. And when they came back -they would revenge themselves <a name="262.png" class="pb"></a> upon -her—insult her with their happiness; perhaps insist on sending her -away.</p> - -<p>Dandy drowsed on her lap. The servant brought in the tea, and when he -returned to the kitchen he said he had never seen any one look so -ghost-like as Miss Emily. The clock ticked loudly in the silence of the old -room, the hands moving slowly towards ten. She waited for the hour to -strike; it was then that she usually went to bed. Her thoughts moved as in -a nightmare; and paramount in this chaotic mass of sensation was an acute -sense of the deception that had been practised on her; with the -consciousness, now firm and unalterable, that it had become impossible for -her to live. When the clock struck she got up from her chair, and the -movement seemed to react on her brain; her thoughts unclouded, and she went -up-stairs thinking clearly of her love of this old house. The old gentleman -in the red coat, his hand on his sword, looked on her benignly; and the -lady playing the spinet smiled as sweetly as was her wont. Emily held up -the candle to the picture of the windmill. She had always loved that -picture, and the sad thought came that she should never see it again. -Dandy, who had galloped up-stairs, stood looking through the banisters, -wagging his tail.</p> - -<a name="263.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>The moment she got into her room she wrote the following note: 'I have -taken an overdose of chloral. My life was too miserable to be borne any -longer. I forgive those who have caused my unhappiness, and I hope they -will forgive me any unhappiness I have caused them.' They were nothing to -her now; they were beyond her hate, and the only pang she felt was parting -with her beloved Dandy. There he stood looking at her, standing on the edge -of the bed, waiting for her to cover him up and put him to sleep in his own -corner. 'Yes, Dandy, in a moment, dear—have patience.' She looked round -the little room, and, remembering all that she had suffered there, thought -that the walls must be saturated with grief, like a sponge.</p> - -<p>It was a common thing at that time for her to stand before the glass and -address such words as these to herself: 'My poor girl, how I pity you, how -I pity you!' And now, looking at herself very sadly, she said, 'My poor -girl, I shall never pity you any more!' Having hung up her dress, she -fetched a chair and took various doses of chloral out of the hollow top of -her wardrobe, where she had hidden things all her life—sweets, novels, -fireworks. They more than half-filled the tumbler; and, looking at the <a -name="264.png" class="pb"></a> sticky, white liquid, she thought with -repugnance of drinking so much of it. But, wanting to make quite sure of -death, she resolved to take it all, and she undressed quickly. She was very -cold when she got into bed. Then a thought struck her, and she got out of -bed to add a postscript to her letter. 'I have only one request to make. I -hope Dandy will always be taken care of.' Surprised that she had not -wrapped him up and told him he was to go to sleep, the dog stood on the -edge of the bed, watching her so earnestly that she wondered if he knew -what she was going to do. 'No, you don't know, dear—do you? If you did, -you wouldn't let me do it; you'd bark the house down, I know you would, my -own darling.' Clasping him to her breast, she smothered him with kisses, -then put him away in his corner, covering him over for the night.</p> - -<p>She felt neither grief nor fear. Through much suffering, thought and -sensation were, to a great extent, dead in her; and, in a sort of emotive -numbness, she laid her candlestick in its usual place on the chair by her -bedside; and, sitting up in bed, her night-dress carefully buttoned, -holding the tumbler half-filled with chloral, she tried to take a -dispassionate survey of her life. She thought of what she had <a -name="265.png" class="pb"></a> endured, and what she would have to endure -if she did not take it. Then she felt she must go, and without hesitation -drank off the chloral. She placed the tumbler by the candlestick, and lay -down, remembering vaguely that a long time ago she had decided that suicide -was not wrong in itself. The last thing she remembered was the clock -striking eleven.</p> - -<p>For half an hour she slept like stone. Then her eyes opened, and they -told of sickness now in motion within her. And, strangely enough, through -the overpowering nausea rising from her stomach to her brain, the thought -that she was not going to die appeared perfectly clear, and with it a sense -of disappointment; she would have to begin it all over again. It was with -great difficulty that she struck a match and lighted a candle. It seemed -impossible to get up. At last she managed to slip her legs out of bed, and -found she could stand, and through the various assaults of retching she -thought of the letter: it must be destroyed; and, leaning in the corner -against the wall and the wardrobe, she tried to recover herself. A dull, -deep sleep was pressing on her brain, and she thought she would never be -able to cross the room to where the letter was. Dandy looked out of his -rug; she caught sight of his bright eyes.</p> - -<a name="266.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>On cold and shaky feet she attempted to make her way towards the letter; -but the room heaved up at her, and, fearing she should fall, and knowing if -she did that she would not be able to regain her feet, she clung to the -toilette-table. She must destroy that letter: if it were found, they would -watch her; and, however impossible her life might become, she would not be -able to escape from it. This consideration gave her strength for a final -effort. She tore the letter into very small pieces, and then, clinging to a -chair, strove to grasp the rail of the bed; but the bed rolled worse than -any ship. Making a supreme effort, she got in; and then, neither dreams nor -waking thoughts, but oblivion complete. Hours and hours passed, and when -she opened her eyes her maid stood over the bed, looking at her.</p> - -<p>'Oh, miss, you looked so tired and ill that I didn't wake you. You do -seem poorly, miss. It is nearly two o'clock. Should you like to sleep a -little longer, or shall I bring you up some breakfast?'</p> - -<p>'No, no, no, thank you. I couldn't touch anything. I'm feeling wretched; -but I'll get up.'</p> - -<p>The maid tried to dissuade her; but Emily got out of bed, and allowed -herself to be dressed. She was very weak—so weak that she could hardly -stand up <a name="267.png" class="pb"></a> at the washstand; and the maid -had to sponge her face and neck. But when she had drunk a cup of tea and -eaten a little piece of toast, she said she felt better, and was able to -walk into the drawing-room. She thought no more of death, nor of her -troubles; thought drowned in her; and in a passive, torpid state she sat -looking into the fire till dinner-time, hardly caring to bestow a casual -caress on Dandy, who seemed conscious of his mistress's neglect, for, in -his sly, coaxing way, he sometimes came and rubbed himself against her -feet. She went into the dining-room, and the servant was glad to see that -she finished her soup, and, though she hardly tasted it, she finished a -wing of a chicken, and also the glass of wine which the man pressed upon -her. Half an hour after, when he brought out the tea, he found her sitting -on her habitual chair nursing her dog, and staring into the fire so -drearily that her look frightened him, and he hesitated before he gave her -the letter which had just come up from the town; but it was marked -'Immediate.'</p> - -<p>When he left the room she opened it. It was from Mrs. Bentley:—</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>'<span class="small-caps">Dearest Emily</span>,—I know that Hubert told -you that he was not going to marry me. He thought he was not, <a -name="268.png" class="pb"></a> for I had refused to marry him; but a short -time after we met in the park quite accidentally, and—well, fate took the -matter out of our hands, and we are to be married to-morrow. Hubert insists -on going to Italy, and I believe we shall remain there two months. We have -made arrangements for your aunt to live with you until we come back; and -when we do come back, I hope all the little unpleasantnesses which have -marred our friendship for this last month or two will be forgotten. So far -as I am concerned, nothing shall be left undone to make you happy. Your -will shall be law at Ashwood so long as I am there. If you would like to -join us in Italy, you have only to say the word. We shall be delighted to -have you.'</p> </blockquote> - -<p>Emily could read no more. 'Join them in Italy!' She dashed the letter -into the fire, and an intense hatred of them both pierced her heart and -brain. It was the kiss of Judas. Oh, those hateful, lying words! To live -here with her aunt until they came back, to wait here quietly until she -returned in triumph with him—him who had been all the world to her. Oh no; -that was not possible. Death, death—escape she must. But how? She had no -more chloral. Suddenly she thought of the lake. 'Yes, yes; the lake, the -lake!' And then a keen, swift, passionate longing for death, such as she -had not felt at all the night before, came upon her. There was the -knowledge <a name="269.png" class="pb"></a> too that by killing herself she -would revenge herself on those who had killed her. She was just conscious -that her suicide would have this effect, but hardly a trace of such -intention appeared in the letter she wrote; it was as melancholy and as -brief as the letter she had torn up, and ended, like it, with a request -that Dandy should be well looked after. She had only just directed the -envelope when she heard the servant coming to take away the tea-things. She -concealed the letter; and when his steps died away in the corridor and the -house-door closed, she knew she could slip out unobserved. Instinctively -she thought of her hat and jacket, and, without a shudder, remembered she -would not need them. She sped down the pathway through the shadow of the -firs.</p> - -<p>It was one of those warm nights of winter when a sulphur-coloured sky -hangs like a blanket behind the wet, dishevelled woods; and, though there -was neither moon nor star, the night was strangely clear, and the shadow of -the bridge was distinct in the water. When she approached the brink the -swans moved slowly away. They reminded her of the cold; but the black -obsession of death was upon her; and, hastening her steps, she threw -herself forward. She fell into shallow water and regained her feet, and for -<a name="270.png" class="pb"></a> a moment it seemed uncertain if she would -wade to the bank or fling herself into a deeper place. Suddenly she sank, -the water rising to her shoulders. She was lifted off her feet. A faint -struggle, a faint cry, and then nothing—nothing but the whiteness of the -swans moving through the sultry night slowly towards the island.</p> - -<a name="271.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XX</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">Its</span> rich, inanimate air proclaimed the -room to be an expensive bedroom in a first-class London hotel. Interest in -the newly-married couple, who were to occupy the room, prompted the -servants to see that nothing was forgotten; and as they lingered steps were -heard in the passage, and Hubert and Julia entered. The maid-servants stood -aside to let them pass, and one inquired if madame wanted anything, so that -her eyes might be gratified with a last inquisition of the happy pair.</p> - -<p>'How wonderful! oh, how wonderful! I don't think I ever saw any one act -before like that—did you?'</p> - -<p>'She certainly had three or four moments that could not be surpassed. -Her entrance in the sleep-walking scene—what vague horror! what pale -presentiment! how she filled the stage! nothing seemed to exist but -she.'</p> - -<p>'And Ford; what did you think of Ford's Macbeth?'</p> - -<a name="272.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Very good. Everything he does is good. Talent; but the other has -genius.'</p> - -<p>'I shall never forget this evening. What an awful tragedy!'</p> - -<p>'Perhaps I should have taken you to see something more cheerful; but I -wanted to see Miss Massey play Lady Macbeth. But let us talk of something -else. Splendid fire—is it not?'</p> - -<p>Hubert threw off his overcoat, the movement attracted Julia's attention, -and it startled her to see how old he seemed to have grown. She noticed as -she had not noticed before the grey in his beard and the pathetic weary -look that haunted his eyes. And she understood in that instant that the -look his face wore was the look of those who have failed in their -vocation.</p> - -<p>And at that very moment he was wondering if he really loved her, if his -marriage were a mistake. The passion he had felt when walking with her on -the wet country road he felt no longer, only an undefinable sadness and a -weariness which he could not understand. He looked at his wife, and fearing -that she divined his thoughts, he kissed her. She returned his kiss coldly -and he wondered if she loved him. He thought that it was improbable that -she did. Why should she love him? He <a name="273.png" class="pb"></a> had -never loved any one. He had never inspired love in any one, except perhaps -Emily.</p> - -<p>'I wonder if you really wished to be married,' she said.</p> - -<p>'I always wished to be married,' he replied. 'I hated the Bohemianism I was forced to live in. I longed for a -home, for a wife.'</p> - -<p>'You were very poor once?'</p> - -<p>'Yes: I've lived on tenpence and a shilling a day. I've worked in the -docks as a labourer. I went down there hoping to get a clerkship on board -one of the Transatlantic steamers. I had had enough of England, and thought -of seeking fortune elsewhere.'</p> - -<p>'I can hardly believe you worked as a labourer in the docks.'</p> - -<p>'Yes; I did. I saw some men going to work, and I joined them. I don't -think I thought much about it at the time. A very little misery rubs all -the psychology out of us, and we return more easily than one thinks to the -animal.'</p> - -<p>'And then?'</p> - -<p>'At the end of a week the work began to tell upon me, and I drifted back -in search of my manuscript.'</p> - -<p>'But you must have been in a dreadful condition; your clothes——'</p> - -<a name="274.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Ah! thereby hangs a tale. An actress lived in one of the houses I had -been lodging in.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, tell me about her! This is getting very interesting.'</p> - -<p>Then passing his arm round his wife's neck, and with her sweet blonde -face looking upon him, and the insinuating warmth of the fire about them, -he told her the story of his failure.</p> - -<p>'But,' she said, her voice trembling, 'you would not have committed -suicide?'</p> - -<p>'No man knows beforehand whether he will commit suicide. I can only say -that every other issue was closed.'</p> - -<p>At the end of a long silence Julia said, 'I wish you hadn't spoken about -suicide. I cannot but think of Emily. If she were to make away with -herself! The very possibility turns my heart to ice. What should I do—what -should we do? I ought never to have given way; we were both abominably -selfish. I can see that poor girl sitting alone in that house grieving her -heart out.'</p> - -<p>'You think that we ought never to have given way!'</p> - -<p>'I suppose we ought not. I tried very hard, you know I did.... But do -you regret?' she said, looking at him suddenly.</p> - -<a name="275.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'No; I don't regret, but I wish it had happened otherwise.'</p> - -<p>'You don't fear anything. Nothing will happen. What can happen?'</p> - -<p>'The most terrible things often happen—have happened.'</p> - -<p>'Emily may have been fond of me—I think she was; but it was no more -than the hysterical caprice of a young girl. Besides, people do not die for -love; and I assure you it will be all right. This is not a time for gloomy -thoughts.'</p> - -<p>'I'll try not to think of her. Well, what were we talking about? I know: -about the actress who lived in 17 Fitzroy Street. Tell me about her.'</p> - -<p>'She was a real good girl. If she hadn't lent me that five shillings, I -don't know where I should be now.'</p> - -<p>'Were you very fond of her?'</p> - -<p>'No; there never was anything of that sort between us. We were merely -friends.'</p> - -<p>'And what has become of this actress?'</p> - -<p>'You saw her to-night?'</p> - -<p>'Was she acting in the piece we saw to-night?'</p> - -<p>'It was she who played Lady Macbeth.'</p> - -<p>'You are joking.'</p> - -<a name="276.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'No, I'm not. I always knew she had genius, and they have found it out; -but I must say they have taken their time about it.'</p> - -<p>'How wonderful! she has succeeded!'</p> - -<p>'Yes, <i>she</i> has succeeded!'</p> - -<p>'And she is really the girl you intended to play Lady Hayward?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; and I hope she will play the part one of these days.'</p> - -<p>'Of course, she is just the woman for it. What a splendid success she -has had! All London is talking about her.'</p> - -<p>'And I remember when Ford refused to cast her for the adventuress in -<i>Divorce</i>. If he had, there is no doubt she would have carried the -piece through. Life is but a bundle of chances; she has succeeded, whatever -that may mean.'</p> - -<p>'But you will let her have the part of Lady Hayward?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, of course—that is to say, if——'</p> - -<p>'Why "if"?'</p> - -<p>'My thoughts are with you, dear; literature seems to have passed out of -sight.'</p> - -<p>'But you must not sacrifice your talent in worship of me. I shall not -allow you. For my sake, if not <a name="277.png" class="pb"></a> for hers, -you must finish that play. I want you to be famous. I should be for ever -miserable if my love proved a upas-tree.'</p> - -<p>'A upas-tree! It will be you who will help me; it will be your presence -that will help me to write my play. I was always vaguely conscious that you -were a necessary element in my life; but I did not wake up to any knowledge -of it until that day—do you remember?—when you came into my study to ask -me what fish I'd like for dinner, and I begged of you to allow me to read -to you that second act. It is that second act that stops me.'</p> - -<p>'I thought you had written the second act to your satisfaction. You said -that after the talk we had that afternoon you wrote for three hours without -stopping, and that you had never done better work.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I wrote a great deal; but on reading it over I found that—I don't -mean to say that none of it will stand; some still seems to me to be all -right, but a great deal will require alteration.'</p> - -<p>The conversation fell. At the end of a long silence Hubert said—</p> - -<p>'What are you thinking of, dearest?'</p> - -<p>'I was thinking that supposing you were mistaken—if I failed to help -you in your work.'</p> - -<a name="278.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'And I never succeeded in writing my play?'</p> - -<p>'No; I don't mean that. Of course you will write your play; all you have -to do is to be less critical.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I know—I have heard that before; but, unfortunately, we cannot -change ourselves. I'll either carry my play through completely, realise my -ideal, or——'</p> - -<p>'Remain for ever unsatisfied?'</p> - -<p>'Whether I write it or no, I shall be happy in your love.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes; let us be happy.'</p> - -<p>They looked at each other. He did not speak, but his thought said—</p> - -<p>'There is no happiness on earth for him who has not accomplished his -task.'</p> - -<p>'Shall we be happy? I wonder. We have both suffered,' she said, 'we are -both tired of suffering, and it is only right that we should be happy.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, we shall be happy, I will be happy. It shall be my pleasure to -attend to you, to give you all your desire. But you said just now that you -had suffered. I have told you my past. Tell me yours. I know nothing except -that you were unhappily married.'</p> - -<p>'There is little else to know; a woman's life is not adventurous, like a -man's. I have not known <a name="279.png" class="pb"></a> the excitement of -"first nights," nor the striving and the craving for an artistic ideal. My -life has been essentially a woman's life,—suppression of self and -monotonous duty, varied by heart-breaking misfortune. I married when I was -very young; before I had even begun to think about life I found—— But why -distress these hours with painful memories?'</p> - -<p>'It is pleasant to look back on the troubles we have passed -through.'</p> - -<p>'Well, I learnt in one year the meaning of three terrible -words—poverty, neglect, and cruelty. In the second year of my marriage my -husband died of drink, and I was left a widow at twenty, entirely -penniless. I went to live with my sister, and she was so poor that I had to -support myself by giving music-lessons. You think you know the meaning of -poverty: you may; but you do not know what a young woman who wants to earn -her bread honestly has to put up with, trudging through wet and cold, mile -after mile, to give a lesson, paid for at the rate of one-and-sixpence or -two shillings an hour.'</p> - -<p>Julia took her eyes from her husband's face, and looked dreamily into -the fire. Then, raising her face from the flame, she looked around with the -air of one seeking for some topic of conversation. At that <a -name="280.png" class="pb"></a> moment she caught sight of the corner of a -letter lying on the mantelpiece. Reaching forth her hand, she took it. It -was addressed to her husband.</p> - -<p>'Here is a letter for you, Hubert.... Why, it comes from Ashwood. Yes, -and it is in the hand-writing of one of the servants. Oh, it is Black's -writing! It may be about Emily. Something may have happened to her. Open it -quickly.'</p> - -<p>'That is not probable. Nothing can have happened to her.'</p> - -<p>'Look and see. Be quick!'</p> - -<p>Hubert opened the letter, and he had not read three lines when Julia's -face caught expression from his, which had become overcast.</p> - -<p>'It is bad news, I know. Something has happened. What is it? Don't keep -me waiting. The suspense is worse than the truth.'</p> - -<p>'It is very awful, Julia. Don't give way.'</p> - -<p>'Tell me what it is. Is she dead?</p> - -<p>'Yes; she is dead.' Julia got up from her husband's knees and stood by -the mantelpiece, leaning upon it. 'It is more than mere death.'</p> - -<p>'What do you mean? She killed herself—is that it?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; she drowned herself the night before last in the lake.'</p> - -<a name="281.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Oh, it is too horrible! Then we have murdered her. Our unpardonable -selfishness! I cannot bear it!' Her eyes closed and her lips trembled. -Hubert caught her in his arms, laid her on the chair, and, fetching some -water in a tumbler, sprinkled her face; then he held it to her lips; she -drank a little, and revived. 'I'm not going to faint. Tell me—tell me when -the unfortunate child——'</p> - -<p>'They don't know exactly. She was in the drawing-room at tea-time, and -the drawing-room was empty when Black went round three-quarters of an hour -after to lock up. He thought she had gone to her room. It was the gardener -who brought in the news in the morning about nine.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, good God!'</p> - -<p>'Black says he noticed that she looked very depressed the day before, -but he thought she was looking better when he brought in the tea.'</p> - -<p>'It was then she got my letter. Does Black say anything about giving her -a letter?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, that is to say——'</p> - -<p>'I knew it! I knew it!' said Julia; and her eyes were wild with grief, -and she rocked herself to and fro. 'It was that letter that drove her to -it. It was most ill-advised. I told you so. You should have <a -name="282.png" class="pb"></a> written. She would have borne the news -better had it come from you. My instinct told me so, but I let myself be -persuaded. I told you how it would happen. I told you. You can't say I -didn't. Oh! why did you persuade me—why—why—why?'</p> - -<p>'Julia dear, we are not responsible. We were in nowise bound to -sacrifice our happiness to her——'</p> - -<p>'Don't say a word! I say we were bound. Life can never be the same to me -again.'</p> - -<p>Hubert did not answer. Nothing he could say would be of the slightest -avail, and he feared to say anything that might draw from her expressions -which she would afterwards regret. He had never seen her moved like this, -nor did he believe her capable of such agitation, and the contrast of her -present with her usual demeanour made it the more impressive.</p> - -<p>'Oh,' she said, leaning forward and looking at him fixedly, 'take this -nightmare off my brain, or I shall go mad! It isn't true; it cannot be -true. But—oh! yes, it's true enough.'</p> - -<p>'Like you, Julia, I am overwhelmed; but we can do nothing.'</p> - -<p>'Do nothing!' she cried; 'do nothing! We can do nothing but pray for -her—we who sacrificed her.' <a name="283.png" class="pb"></a> And she -slipped on her knees and burst into a passionate fit of weeping.</p> - -<p>'The best thing that could have happened,' thought Hubert; and his -thought said, clearly and precisely, 'Yes; it is awful, shocking, cruel -beyond measure!'</p> - -<p>The fire was sinking, and he built it up quietly, ashamed of this proof -of his regard for physical comfort, and hoping it would pass unnoticed. His -pain expressed itself less vehemently than Julia's; but for all that his -mind ached. He remembered how he had taken everything from her—fortune, -happiness, and now life itself. It was an appalling tragedy—one of those -senseless cruelties which we find nature constantly inventing. A thought -revealed an unexpected analogy between him and his victim. In both lives -there had been a supreme desire, and both had failed. 'Hers was the better -part,' he said bitterly. 'Those whose souls are burdened with desire that -may not be gratified had better fling the load aside. They are fools who -carry it on to the end.... If it were not for Julia——'</p> - -<p>Then he sought to determine what were his exact feelings. He knew he was -infinitely sorry for poor Emily; but he could not stir himself into a -paroxysm <a name="284.png" class="pb"></a> of grief, and, ashamed of his -inability to express his feelings, he looked at Julia, who still wept.</p> - -<p>'No doubt,' he thought, 'women have keener feelings than we have.'</p> - -<p>At that moment Julia got up from her knees. She had brushed away her -tears. Her face was shaken with grief.</p> - -<p>'My heart is breaking,' she said. 'This is too cruel—too cruel! And on -my wedding night.'</p> - -<p>Their eyes met; and, divining each other's thought, each felt ashamed, -and Julia said—</p> - -<p>'Oh, what am I saying? This dreadful selfishness, from which we cannot -escape, that is with us even in such a moment as this! That poor child gone -to her death, and yet amid it all we must think of ourselves.'</p> - -<p>'My dear Julia, we cannot escape from our human nature; but, for all -that, our grief is sincere. We can do nothing. Do not grieve like -that.'</p> - -<p>'And why not? She was my best friend. How have I repaid her? Alas! as -woman always repays woman for kindness done. The old story. I cannot -forgive myself. No, no! do not kiss me! I cannot bear it. Leave me. I can -see nothing but Emily's reproachful face.' She covered her face in her -hands and sobbed again.</p> - -<a name="285.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>The same scenes repeated themselves over and over again. The same fits -of passionate grief; the same moment of calm, when words impregnated with -self dropped from their lips. The same nervous sense that something of the -dead girl stood between them. And still they sat by the fire, weary with -sorrow, recrimination, long regret, and pain. They could grieve no more; -and before dawn sleep pressed upon their eyelids, and at the end of a long -silence he dozed—a pale, transparent sleep, through which the realities of -life appeared almost as plainly as before. Suddenly he awoke, and he -shivered in the chill room. The fire was sinking; dawn divided the -window-curtains. He looked at his wife. She seemed to him very beautiful as -she slept, her face turned a little on one side, and again he asked himself -if he loved her. Then, going to the window, he drew the curtains softly, so -as not to awaken her; and as he stood watching a thin discoloured day -breaking over the roofs, it again seemed to him that Emily's suicide was -the better part. 'Those who do not perform their task in life are never -happy.' The words drilled themselves into his brain with relentless -insistency. He felt a terrible emptiness within him which he could not -fill. He looked at his wife and quailed a little <a name="286.png" -class="pb"></a> at the thought that had suddenly come upon him. She was -something like himself—that was why he had married her. We are attracted -by what is like ourselves. Emily's passion might have stirred him. Now he -would have to settle down to live with Julia, and their similar natures -would grow more and more like one another. Then, turning on his thoughts, -he dismissed them. They were the morbid feverish fancies of an exceptional, -of a terrible night. He opened the window quietly so as not to awaken his -wife. And in the melancholy greyness of the dawn he looked down into the -street and wondered what the end would be.</p> - -<p>He did not think that he would live long. Disappointed men—those who -have failed in their ambition—do not live to make old bones. There were -men like him in every profession—the arts are crowded with them. He had -met barristers and soldiers and clergy-men, just like himself. One hears of -their deaths—failure of the heart's action, paralysis of the brain, a -hundred other medical causes—but the real cause is, lack of -appreciation.</p> - -<p>He would hang on for another few years, no doubt; during that time he -must try to make his wife happy. <a name="287.png" class="pb"></a> His duty -was now to be a good husband, at all events, there was that.</p> - -<p>His wife lay asleep in the arm-chair, and fearing she might catch cold, -he came into the room closing the window very gently behind him.</p> - -<p>THE END</p> - -<p>Printed by T. and A. <span class="small-caps">Constable</span>, printers -to Her Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press.</p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Vain Fortune, by George Moore - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VAIN FORTUNE *** - -***** This file should be named 11303-h.htm or 11303-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/3/0/11303/ - -Produced by Jon Ingram, Branko Collin and PG Distributed Proofreaders - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - - - - -Title: Vain Fortune - -Author: George Moore - -Release Date: February 26, 2004 [eBook #11303] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: US-ASCII - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VAIN FORTUNE*** - - - -[Illustration: "She slipped on her knees, and burst into a passionate fit -of weeping."] - -Vain Fortune - -A Novel - -By - -George Moore - -_With Five Illustrations By__Maurice Greiffenhagen_ - -New Edition - -Completely Revised - -London: Walter Scott, Ltd. Paternoster Square - -1895 - -Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty - - - - -Prefatory Note - - -I hope it will not seem presumptuous to ask my critics to treat this new -edition of _Vain Fortune_ as a new book: for it is a new book. The first -edition was kindly noticed, but it attracted little attention, and very -rightly, for the story as told therein was thin and insipid; and when -Messrs. Scribner proposed to print the book in America, I stipulated that I -should be allowed to rewrite it. They consented, and I began the story with -Emily Watson, making her the principal character instead of Hubert Price. -Some months after I received a letter from Madam Couperus, offering to -translate the English edition into Dutch. I sent her the American edition, -and asked her which she would prefer to translate from. Madam Couperus -replied that many things in the English edition, which she would like to -retain, had been omitted from the American edition, that the hundred or -more pages which I had written for the American edition seemed to her -equally worthy of retention. - -She pointed out that, without the alteration of a sentence, the two -versions could be combined. The idea had not occurred to me; I saw, -however, that what she proposed was not only feasible but advantageous. I -wrote, therefore, giving her the required permission, and thanking her for -a suggestion which I should avail myself of when the time came for a new -English edition. - -The union of the texts was no doubt accomplished by Madam Couperus, without -the alteration of a sentence; but no such accomplished editing is possible -to me; I am a victim to the disease of rewriting, and the inclusion of the -hundred or more pages of new matter written for the American edition led me -into a third revision of the story. But no more than in the second has the -skeleton, or the attitude of the skeleton been altered in this third -version, only flesh and muscle have been added, and, I think, a little -life. _Vain Fortune_, even in its present form, is probably not my best -book, but it certainly is far from being my worst. But my opinion regarding -my own work is of no value; I do not write this Prefatory Note to express -it, but to ask my critics and my readers to forget the original _Vain -Fortune_, and to read this new book as if it were issued under another -title. - -G.M. - - - - -I - - -The lamp had not been wiped, and the room smelt slightly of paraffin. The -old window-curtains, whose harsh green age had not softened, were drawn. -The mahogany sideboard, the threadbare carpet, the small horsehair sofa, -the gilt mirror, standing on a white marble chimney-piece, said clearly, -'Furnished apartments in a house built about a hundred years ago.' There -were piles of newspapers, there were books on the mahogany sideboard and on -the horsehair sofa, and on the table there were various manuscripts,--_The -Gipsy_, Act I.; _The Gipsy_, Act III., Scenes iii. and iv. - -A sheet of foolscap paper, and upon it a long slender hand. The hand traced -a few lines of fine, beautiful caligraphy, then it paused, correcting with -extreme care what was already written, and in a hesitating, minute way, -telling of a brain that delighted in the correction rather than in the -creation of form. - -The shirt-cuff was frayed and dirty. The coat was thin and shiny. A -half-length figure of a man drew out of the massed shadows between the -window and sideboard. The red beard caught the light, and the wavy brown -hair brightened. Then a look of weariness, of distress, passed over the -face, and the man laid down the pen, and, taking some tobacco from a paper, -rolled a cigarette. Rising, and leaning forward, he lighted it over the -lamp. He was a man of about thirty-six feet, broad-shouldered, well-built, -healthy, almost handsome. - -The time he spent in dreaming his play amounted to six times, if not ten -times, as much as he devoted to trying to write it; and he now lit -cigarette after cigarette, abandoning himself to every meditation,--the -unpleasantness of life in lodgings, the charm of foreign travel, the beauty -of the south, what he would do if his play succeeded. He plunged into -calculation of the time it would take him to finish it if he were to sit at -home all day, working from seven to ten hours every day. If he could but -make up his mind concerning the beginning and the middle of the third act, -and about the end, too,--the solution,--he felt sure that, with steady -work, the play could be completed in a fortnight. In such reverie and such -consideration he lay immersed, oblivious of the present moment, and did not -stir from his chair until the postman shook the frail walls with a violent -double knock. He hoped for a letter, for a newspaper--either would prove a -welcome distraction. The servant's footsteps on the stairs told him the -post had brought him something. His heart sank at the thought that it was -probably only a bill, and he glanced at all the bills lying one above -another on the table. - -It was not a bill, nor yet an advertisement, but a copy of a weekly review. -He tore it open. An article about himself! - -After referring to the deplorable condition of the modern stage, the writer -pointed out how dramatic writing has of late years come to be practised -entirely by men who have failed in all other branches of literature. Then -he drew attention to the fact that signs of weariness and dissatisfaction -with the old stale stories, the familiar tricks in bringing about 'striking -situations,' were noticeable, not only in the newspaper criticisms of new -plays, but also among the better portion of the audience. He admitted, -however, that hitherto the attempts made by younger writers in the -direction of new subject-matter and new treatment had met with little -success. But this, he held, was not a reason for discouragement. Did those -who believed in the old formulas imagine that the new formula would be -discovered straight away, without failures preliminary? Besides, these -attempts were not utterly despicable; at least one play written on the new -lines had met with some measure of success, and that play was Mr. Hubert -Price's _Divorce_. - -'Yes, the fellow is right. The public is ready for a good play: it wasn't -when _Divorce_ was given. I must finish _The Gipsy_. There are good things -in it; that I know. But I wish I could get that third act right. The public -will accept a masterpiece, but it will not accept an attempt to write a -masterpiece. But this time there'll be no falling off in the last acts. The -scene between the gipsy lover and the young lord will fetch 'em.' Taking up -the review, Hubert glanced over the article a second time. 'How anxious the -fellows are for me to achieve a success! How they believe in me! They -desire it more than I do. They believe in me more than I do in myself. They -want to applaud me. They are hungry for the masterpiece.' - -At that moment his eye was caught by some letters written on blue paper. -His face resumed a wearied and hunted expression. 'There's no doubt about -it, money I must get somehow. I am running it altogether too fine. There -isn't twenty pounds between me and the deep sea.' - - * * * * * - -He was the son of the Rev. James Price, a Shropshire clergyman. The family -was of Welsh extraction, but in Hubert none of the physical characteristics -of the Celt appeared. He might have been selected as a typical Anglo-Saxon. -The face was long and pale, and he wore a short reddish beard; the eyes -were light blue, verging on grey, and they seemed to speak a quiet, -steadfast soul. Hubert had always been his mother's favourite, and the -scorn of his elder brothers, two rough boys, addicted in early youth to -robbing orchards, and later on to gambling and drinking. The elder, after -having broken his father's heart with debts and disgraceful living, had -gone out to the Cape. News of his death came to the Rectory soon after; but -James's death did not turn Henry from his evil courses, and one day his -father and mother had to go to London on his account, and they brought him -back a hopeless invalid. Hubert was twelve years of age when he followed -his brother to the grave. - -It was at his brother's funeral that Hubert met for the first time his -uncle, Mr. Burnett. Mr. Burnett had spent the greater part of his life in -New Zealand, where he had made a large fortune by sheep-farming and -investments in land. He had seemed to be greatly taken with his nephew, and -for many years it was understood that he would leave him the greater part, -if not the whole, of his fortune. But Mr. Burnett had come under the -influence of some poor relations, some distant cousins, the Watsons, and -had eventually decided to adopt their daughter Emily and leave her his -fortune. He did not dare intimate his change of mind to his sister; but the -news having reached Mrs. Price in various rumours, she wrote to her brother -asking him to confirm or deny these rumours; and when he admitted their -truth, Mrs. Price never spoke to him again. She was a determined woman, and -the remembrance of the wrong done to her son never left her. - -While the other children had been a torment and disgrace, Hubert had been -to his parents a consolation and a blessing. They had feared that he too -might turn to betting and drink, but he had never shown sign of low tastes. -He played no games, nor did he care for terriers or horses; but for books -and drawing, and long country walks. Immediately on hearing of his -disinheritance he had spoken at once of entering a profession; and for many -months this was the subject of consideration in the Rectory. Hubert joined -in these discussions willingly, but he could not bring himself to accept -the army or the bar. It was indeed only necessary to look at him to see -that neither soldier's tunic nor lawyer's wig was intended for him; and it -was nearly as clear that those earnest eyes, so intelligent and yet so -undetermined in their gaze, were not those of a doctor. - -But if his eyes failed to predict his future, his hands told the story of -his life distinctly enough--those long, white, languid hands, what could -they mean but art? And very soon Hubert began to draw, evincing some -natural aptitude. Then an artist came into the neighbourhood, the two -became friends, and went together on a long sketching tour. Life in the -open air, the shade of the hedge, the glare of the highway, the meditation -of the field, the languor of the river-side, the contemplation of wooded -horizons, was what Hubert's pastoral nature was most fitted to enjoy; and, -for the sake of the life it afforded him, he pursued the calling of a -landscape painter long after he had begun to feel his desire turning in -another direction. When the landscape on the canvas seemed hopelessly -inadequate, he laid aside the brush for the pencil, and strove to interpret -the summer fields in verse. From verse he drifted into the article and the -short story, and from the story into the play. And it was in this last form -that he felt himself strongest, and various were the dramas and comedies -that he dreamed from year's end to year's end. - -While he was in the midst of his period of verse-writing his mother died, -and in the following year, just as he was working at his stories, he -received a telegram calling him to attend his father's death-bed. When the -old man was laid in the shadow of the weather-beaten village church, Hubert -gathered all his belongings and bade farewell for ever to the Shropshire -rectory. - -In London Hubert made few friends. There were some two or three men with -whom he was frequently seen--quiet folk like himself, whose enjoyment -consisted in smoking a tranquil pipe in the evening, or going for long -walks in the country. He was one of those men whose indefiniteness provokes -curiosity, and his friends noticed and wondered why it was that he was so -frequently the theme of their conversation. His simple, unaffected manners -were full of suggestion, and in his writings there was always an -indefinable rainbow-like promise of ultimate achievement. So, long before -he had succeeded in writing a play, detached scenes and occasional verses -led his friends into gradual belief that he was one from whom big things -might be expected. And when the one-act play which they had all so heartily -approved of was produced, and every newspaper praised it for its literary -quality, the friends took pride in this public vindication of their -opinion. After the production of his play people came to see the new -author, and every Saturday evening some fifteen or twenty men used to -assemble in Hubert's lodgings to drink whisky, smoke cigars, and talk -drama. Encouraged by his success, Hubert wrote _Divorce_. He worked -unceasingly upon it for more than a year, and when he had written the final -scene, he was breaking into his last hundred pounds. The play was refused -twice, and then accepted by a theatrical speculator, to whom it seemed to -afford opportunity for the exhibition of the talents of a lady he was -interested in. - -The success of the play was brief. But before it was withdrawn, Hubert had -sold the American rights for a handsome sum, and within the next two years -he had completed a second play, which he called _An Ebbing Tide_. Some of -the critics argued that it contained scenes as fine as any in _Divorce_, -but it was admitted on all sides that the interest withered in the later -acts. But the failure of the play did not shake the established belief in -Hubert's genius; it merely concentrated the admiration of those interested -in the new art upon _Divorce_, the partial failure of which was now -attributed to the acting. If it had only been played at the Haymarket or -the Lyceum, it could not have failed. - -The next three years Hubert wasted in various aestheticisms. He explained -the difference between the romantic and realistic methods in the reviews; -he played with a poetic drama to be called _The King of the Beggars_, and -it was not until the close of the third year that he settled down to -definite work. Then all his energies were concentrated on a new play--_The -Gipsy_. A young woman of Bohemian origin is suddenly taken with the -nostalgia of the tent, and leaves her husband and her home to wander with -those of her race. He had read portions of this play to his friends, who at -last succeeded in driving Montague Ford, the popular actor-manager, to -Hubert's door; and after hearing some few scenes he had offered a couple of -hundred pounds in advance of fees for the completed manuscript. 'But when -can I have the manuscript?' said Ford, as he was about to leave. 'As soon -as I can finish it,' Hubert replied, looking at him wistfully out of pale -blue-grey eyes. 'I could finish it in a month, if I could count on not -being worried by duns or disturbed by friends during that time.' - -Ford looked at Hubert questioningly; then he said 'I have always noticed -that when a fellow wants to finish a play, the only way to do it is to go -away to the country and leave no address.' - -But the country was always so full of pleasure for him, that he doubted his -power to remain indoors with the temptation of fields and rivers before his -eyes, and he thought that to escape from dunning creditors it would be -sufficient to change his address. So he left Norfolk Street for the more -remote quarter of Fitzroy Street, where he took a couple of rooms on the -second floor. One of his fellow-lodgers, he soon found, was Rose Massey, an -actress engaged for the performance of small parts at the Queen's Theatre. -The first time he spoke to her was on the doorstep. She had forgotten her -latch-key, and he said, 'Will you allow me to let you in?' She stepped -aside, but did not answer him. Hubert thought her rude, but her strange -eyes and absent-minded manner had piqued his curiosity, and, having nothing -to do that night, he went to the theatre to see her act. She was playing a -very small part, and one that was evidently unsuited to her--a part that -was in contradiction to her nature; but there was something behind the -outer envelope which led him to believe she had real talent, and would make -a name for herself when she was given a part that would allow her to reveal -what was in her. - -In the meantime, Rose had been told that the gentleman she had snubbed in -the passage was Mr. Hubert Price, the author of _Divorce_. - -'Oh, it was very silly of me,' she said to Annie. 'If I had only known!' - -'Lor', he don't mind; he'll be glad enough to speak to you when you meets -him again.' - -And when they met again on the stairs, Rose nodded familiarly, and Hubert -said-- - -'I went to the Queen's the other night.' - -'Did you like the piece?' - -'I did not care about the piece; but when you get a wild, passionate part -to play, you'll make a hit. The sentimental parts they give you don't suit -you.' - -A sudden light came into the languid face. 'Yes, I shall do something if I -can get a part like that.' - -Hubert told her that he was writing a play containing just such a part. - -Her eyes brightened again. 'Will you read me the play?' she said, fixing -her dark, dreamy eyes on him. - -'I shall be very glad.... Do you think it won't bore you?' And his wistful -grey eyes were full of interrogation. - -'No, I'm sure it won't.' - -And a few days after she sent Annie with a note, reminding him of his -promise to read her what he had written. As she had only a bedroom, the -reading had to take place in his sitting-room. He read her the first and -second acts. She was all enthusiasm, and begged hard to be allowed to study -the part--just to see what she could do with it--just to let him see that -he was not mistaken in her. Her interest in his work captivated him, and he -couldn't refuse to lend her the manuscript. - - - - -II - - -Rose often came to see Hubert in his rooms. Her manner was disappointing, -and he thought he must be mistaken in his first judgment of her talents. -But one afternoon she gave him a recitation of the sleep-walking scene in -_Macbeth_. It was strange to see this little dark-complexioned, dark-eyed -girl, the merest handful of flesh and bone, divest herself at will of her -personality, and assume the tragic horror of Lady Macbeth, or the -passionate rapture of Juliet detaining her husband-lover on the balcony of -her chamber. Hubert watched in wonderment this girl, so weak and languid in -her own nature, awaking only to life when she assumed the personality of -another. There she lay, her wispy form stretched in his arm-chair, her -great dark eyes fixed, her mind at rest, sunk in some inscrutable dream. -Her thin hand lay on the arm of the chair: when she woke from her day-dream -she burst into irresponsible laughter, or questioned him with petulant -curiosity. He looked again: her dark curling hair hung on her swarthy neck, -and she was somewhat untidily dressed in blue linen. - -'Were you ever in love?' she said suddenly. 'I don't suppose you could be; -you are too occupied with your play. I don't know, though; you might be in -love, but I don't think that many women would be in love with you.... You -are too good a man, and women don't like good men.' - -Hubert laughed, and without a trace of offended vanity in his voice he -said, 'I don't profess to be much of a lady-killer.' - -'You don't know what I mean,' she said, looking at him fixedly, a maze of -half-childish, half-artistic curiosity in her handsome eyes. - -Perplexed in his shy, straightford nature, Hubert inquired if she took -sugar in her tea. She said she did; stretched her feet to the fire, and -lapsed into dream. She was one of the enigmas of Stageland. She supported -herself, and went about by herself, looking a poor, lost little thing. She -spoke with considerable freedom of language on all subjects, but no one had -been able to fix a lover upon her. - -'What a part Lady Hayward is! But tell me,--I don't quite catch your -meaning in the second act. Is this it?' and starting to her feet, she -became in a moment another being. With a gesture, a look, an intonation, -she was the woman of the play,--a woman taken by an instinct, long -submerged, but which has floated to the surface, and is beginning to -command her actions. In another moment she had slipped back into her weary -lymphatic nature, at once prematurely old and extravagantly childish. She -could not talk of indifferent things; and having asked some strange -questions, and laughed loudly, she wished Hubert 'Good-afternoon' in her -curious, irresponsible fashion, taking her leave abruptly. - -The next two days Hubert devoted entirely to his play. There were things in -it which he knew were good, but it was incomplete. Montague Ford would not -produce it in its present form. He must put his shoulder to the wheel and -get it right; one more push, that was all that was wanted. And he could be -heard walking to and fro, up and down, along and across his tiny -sitting-room, stopping suddenly to take a note of an idea that had occurred -to him. - -One day he went to Hampstead Heath. A long walk, he thought, would clear -his mind, and he returned home thinking of his play. The sunset still -glittering in the skies; the bare trees were beautifully distinct on the -blue background of the suburban street, and at the end of the long -perspective, a 'bus and a hansom could be seen coming towards him. As they -grew larger, his thoughts defined themselves, and the distressing problem -of his fourth act seemed to solve itself. That very evening he would sketch -out a new dramatic movement around which all the other movements of the act -would cluster. But at the corner of Fitzroy Square, within a few yards of -No. 17, he was accosted by a shabbily-dressed man, who inquired if he were -Mr. Price. On being answered in the affirmative, the shabbily-dressed man -said, 'Then I have something for ye; I have been a-watching for ye for the -last three days, but ye didn't come out; missed yer this morning: 'ere it -is;' and he thrust a folded paper into Hubert's hand. - -'What is this?' - -'Don't yer know?' he said with a grin; 'Messrs. Tomkins & Co., Tailors, -writ--twenty-two pound odd.' - -Hubert made no answer; he put the paper in his pocket, opened the door -quietly, stole up to his room, and sat down to think. The first thing to do -was to examine into his finances. It was alarming to find that he was -breaking into his last five-pound note. True that he was close on the end -of his play, and when it was finished he would be able to draw on Ford. But -a summons to appear in the county court could not fail to do him immense -injury. He had heard of avoiding service, but he knew little of the law, -and wondered what power the service of the writ gave his creditor over him. -His instinct was to escape--hide himself where they would not be able to -find him, and so obtain time to finish his play. But he owed his landlady -money, and his departure would have to be clandestine. As he reflected on -how many necessaries he might carry away in a newspaper, he began to feel -strangely like a criminal, and while rolling up a couple of shirts, a few -pairs of socks, and some collars, he paused, his hands resting on the -parcel. He did not seem to know himself, and it was difficult to believe -that he really intended to leave the house in this disreputable fashion. -Mechanically he continued to add to his parcel, thinking all the while that -he must go, otherwise his play would never be written. - -He had been working very well for the last few days, and now he saw his way -quite clearly; the inspiration he had been so long waiting for had come at -last, and he felt sure of his fourth act. At the same time he wished to -conduct himself honestly, even in this distressing situation. Should he -tell his landlady the truth? But the desire to realise his idea was -intolerable, and, yielding as if before an irresistible force, he tied the -parcel and prepared to go. At that moment he remembered that he must leave -a note for his landlady, and he was more than ever surprised at the -naturalness with which lying phrases came into his head. But when it came -to committing them to paper, he found he could not tell an absolute lie, -and he wrote a simple little note to the effect that he had been called -away on urgent business, and hoped to return in about a week. - -He descended the stairs softly. Mrs. Wilson's sitting-room opened on to the -passage; she might step out at any moment, and intercept his exit. He had -nearly reached the last flight when he remembered that he had forgotten his -manuscripts. His flesh turned cold, his heart stood still. There was -nothing for it but to ascend those creaking stairs again. His already -heavily encumbered pockets could not be persuaded to receive more than a -small portion of the manuscripts. He gathered them in his hand, and -prepared to redescend the perilous stairs. He walked as lightly as -possible, dreading that every creak would bring Mrs. Wilson from her -parlour. A few more steps, and he would be in the passage. A smell of dust, -sounds of children crying, children talking in the kitchen! A few more -steps, and, with his eyes on the parlour door, Hubert had reached the rug -at the foot of the stairs. He hastened along, the passage. Mrs. Wilson was -a moment too late. His hand was on the street-door when she appeared at the -door of her parlour. - -'Mr. Price, I want to speak to you before you go out. There has----' - -'I can't wait--running to catch a train. You'll find a letter on my table. -It will explain.' - -Hubert slipped out, closed the door, and ran down the street, and it was -not until he had put two or three streets between him and Fitzroy Street -that he relaxed his pace, and could look behind him without dreading to -feel the hand of the 'writter' upon his shoulder. - - - - -III - - -Then he wandered, not knowing where he was going, still in the sensation of -his escape, a little amused, and yet with a shadow of fear upon his soul, -for he grew more and more conscious of the fact that he was homeless, if -not quite penniless. Suddenly he stopped walking. Night was thickening in -the street, and he had to decide where he would sleep. He could not afford -to pay more than five or six shillings a week for a room, and he thought of -Holloway, as being a neighbourhood where creditors would not be able to -find him. So he retraced his steps, and, tired and footsore, entered the -Tottenham Court Road by the Oxford Street end. - -There the omnibuses stopped. A conductor shouted for fares, with the light -of the public-house lamps on his open mouth. There was smell of mud, of -damp clothes, of bad tobacco, and where the lights of the costermongers' -barrows broke across the footway the picture was of a group of three -coarse, loud-voiced girls, followed by boys. There were fish shops, cheap -Italian restaurants, and the long lines of low houses vanished in crapulent -night. The characteristics of the Tottenham Court Road impressed themselves -on Hubert's mind, and he thought how he would have to bear for at least -three weeks with all the grime of its poverty. It would take about that -time to finish his play, and the neighbourhood would suit his purpose -excellently well. So long as he did not pass beyond it he ran little risk -of discovery, and to secure himself against friends and foes he penetrated -farther northward, not stopping till he reached the confines of Holloway. - -Then a little dim street caught his eye, and he knocked at the door of the -first house exhibiting a card in the parlour window. But they did not let -their bedroom under seven shillings, and this seemed to Hubert to be an -extravagant price. He tried farther on, and at last found a clean room for -six shillings. Having no luggage, he paid a week's rent in advance, and the -landlady promised to get him a small table, on which he could write, a -small table that would fit in somewhere near the window. She asked him when -he would like to be called, and put the candlestick on the chair. Hubert -looked round the room, and a moment sufficed to complete the survey. It was -about seven feet long. The lower half of the window was curtained by a -piece of muslin hardly bigger than a good-sized pocket-handkerchief; to do -anything in this room except to lie in bed seemed difficult, and Hubert sat -down on the bed and emptied out his pockets. He had just four pounds, and -the calculation how long he could live on such a sum took him some time. -His breakfast, whether he had it at home or in the coffee-house, would cost -him at least fourpence. He thought he would be able to obtain a fairly good -dinner in one of the little Italian restaurants for ninepence. His tea -would cost the same as his breakfast. To these sums he must add twopence -for tobacco and a penny for an evening paper--impossible to do without -tobacco, and he must know what was going on in the world. He could -therefore live for one shilling and eightpence a day--eleven shillings a -week--to which he would have to add six shillings a week for rent, -altogether seventeen shillings a week. He really did not see how he could -do it cheaper. Four times seventeen are sixty-eight; sixty-eight shillings -for a month of life, and he had eighty shillings--twelve shillings for -incidental expenses; and out of that twelve shillings he must buy a shirt, -a sponge, and a tooth brush, and when they were bought there would be very -little left. He must finish his play under the month. Nothing could be -clearer than that. - -Next morning he asked the landlady to let him have a cup of tea and some -bread and butter, and he ate as much bread as he could, to save himself -from being hungry in the middle of the day. He began work immediately, and -continued until seven, and feeling then somewhat light-headed, but -satisfied with himself, went to the nearest Italian restaurant. The food -was better than he expected; but he spent twopence more than he had -intended, so, to accustom himself to a life of strict measure and -discipline, he determined to forego his tea that evening. And so he lived -and worked until the end of the week. - -But the situation he had counted on to complete his fourth act had proved -almost impracticable in the working out; he laboured on, however, and at -the end of the tenth day at least one scene satisfied him. He read it over -slowly, carefully, thought about it, decided that it was excellent, and lay -down on his bed to consider it. At that moment it struck him that he had -better calculate how much he had spent in the last ten days. He gathered -himself into a sitting posture and counted his money; he had spent thirty -shillings, and at that rate his money would not hold out till the end of -the month. He must reduce his expenditure; but how? Impossible to find a -room where he could live more cheaply than in the one he had got, and it is -not easy to dine in London on less than ninepence. Only the poor can live -cheaply. He pressed his hands to his face. His head seemed like splitting, -and his monetary difficulty, united with his literary difficulties, -produced a momentary insanity. Work that morning was impossible, so he went -out to study the eating-houses of the neighbourhood. He must find one where -he could dine for sixpence. Or he might buy a pound of cooked beef and take -it home with him in a paper bag; but that would seem an almost intolerable -imprisonment in his little room. He could go to a public-house and dine off -a sausage and potato. But at that moment his attention was caught by black -letters on a dun, yellowish ground: 'Lockhart's Cocoa Rooms.' Not having -breakfasted, he decided to have a cup of cocoa and a roll. - -It was a large, barn-like place, the walls covered with a coat of grey-blue -paint. Under the window there was a zinc counter, with zinc urns always -steaming, emiting odours of tea, coffee, and cocoa. The seats were like -those which give a garden-like appearance to the tops of some omnibuses. -Each was made to hold two persons, and the table between them was large -enough for four plates and four pairs of hands. A few hollow-chested men, -the pale vagrants of civilisation, drowsed in the corners. They had been -hunted through the night by the policeman, and had come in for something -hot. Hubert noted the worn frock-coats, and the miserable arms coming out -of shirtless sleeves. One looked up inquiringly, and Hubert thought how -slight had become the line that divided him from the outcast. A -serving-maid collected the plates, knives and forks, when the customers -left, and carried them back to the great zinc counter. - -Impressed by his appearance, she brought him what he had ordered and took -the money for it, although the custom of the place was for the customer to -pay for food at the counter and carry it himself to the table at which he -chose to eat. Hubert learnt that there was no set dinner, but there was a -beef-steak pudding at one, price fourpence, a penny potatoes, a penny -bread. So by dining at Lockhart's he would be able to cut down his daily -expense by at least twopence; that would extend the time to finish his play -by nearly a week. And if his appetite were not keen, he could assuage it -with a penny plum pudding; or he could take a middle course, making his -dinner off a sausage and mashed potatoes. The room was clean, well lighted, -and airy; he could read his paper there, and forget his troubles in the -observation of character. He even made friends. An old wizen creature, who -had been a prize-fighter, told him of his triumphs. If he hadn't broke his -hand on somebody's nose he'd have been champion light-weight of England. -'And to think that I have come to this,' he added emphatically. 'Even them -boys knock me about now, and 'alf a century ago I could 'ave cleared the -bloomin' place.' There was a merry little waif from the circus who loved to -come and sit with Hubert. She had been a rider, she said, but had broken -her leg on one occasion, and cut her head all open on another, and had -ended by running away with some one who had deserted her. 'So here I am,' -she remarked, with a burst of laughter, 'talking to you. Did you never hear -of Dolly Dayrell?' Hubert confessed that he had not. 'Why,' she said, 'I -thought every one had.' - -About eight o'clock in the evening, the table near the stairs was generally -occupied by flower-girls, dressed in dingy clothes, and brightly feathered -hats. They placed their empty baskets on the floor, and shouted at their -companions--men who sold newspapers, boot-laces, and cheap toys. About nine -the boys came in, the boys who used to push the old prize-fighter about, -and Hubert soon began to perceive how representative they were of all -vices--gambling, theft, idleness, and cruelty were visible in their faces. -They were led by a Jew boy who sold penny jewellery at the corner of Oxford -Street, and they generally made for the tables at the end of the room, for -there, unless custom was slack indeed, they could defeat the vigilance of -the serving-maid and play at nap at their ease. The tray of penny jewellery -was placed at the corner of a table, and a small boy set to watch over it. -His duty was also to shuffle his feet when the servant-maid approached, and -a precious drubbing he got if he failed to shuffle them loud enough. The -''ot un,' as he was nicknamed, always had a pack of cards in his pocket, -and to annex everything left on the tables he considered to be his -privilege. One day, when he was asked how he came by the fine carnation in -his buttonhole, he said it was a present from Sally, neglecting to add that -he had told the child to steal it from a basket which a flower-girl had -just put down. - -[Illustration: "'A dirty, hignominious lot, them boys is.'"] - -Hubert hated this boy, and once could not resist boxing his ears. The ''ot -un' writhed easily out of his reach, and then assailed him with foul -language, and so loud were his words that they awoke the innocent cause of -the quarrel, a weak, sickly-looking man, with pale blue eyes and a blonde -beard. Hubert had protected him before now against the brutality of the -boys, who, when they were not playing nap, divided their pleasantries -between him and the decrepit prize-fighter. He came in about nine, took a -cup of coffee from the counter, and settled himself for a snooze. The boys -knew this, and it was their amusement to keep him awake by pelting him with -egg-shells and other missiles. Hubert noticed that he had always with him a -red handkerchief full of some sort of loose rubbish, which the boys -gathered when it fell about the floor, or purloined from the handkerchief -when they judged that the owner was sufficiently fast asleep. Hubert now -saw that the handkerchief was filled with bits of coloured chalk, and -guessed that the man must be a pavement artist. - -'A dirty, hignominious lot, them boys is,' said the artist, fixing his -pale, melancholy eyes on Hubert; 'bad manners, no eddication, and, above -all, no respect.' - -'They are an unmannerly lot--that Jew boy especially. I don't think there's -a vice he hasn't got.' - -The artist stared at Hubert a long time in silence. A thought seemed to be -stirring in his mind. - -'I'm speaking, I can see, to a man of eddication. I'm a fust-rate judge of -character, though I be but a pavement artist; but a picture's none the less -a picture, no matter where it is drawn. That's true, ain't it?' - -'Quite true. A horse is a horse, and an ass is an ass, no matter what -stable you put them into.' - -The artist laughed a guttural laugh, and, fixing his pale blue porcelain -eyes on Hubert, he said-- - -'Yes; see I made no bloomin' error when I said you was a man of eddication. -A literary gent, I should think. In the reporting line, most like. Down in -the luck like myself. What was it--drink? Got the chuck?' - -'No,' said Hubert, 'never touch it. Out of work.' - -'No offence, master, we're all mortal, we is all weak, and in misfortune we -goes to it. It was them boys that drove me to it.' - -'How was that?' - -'They was always round my show; no getting rid of them, and their remarks -created a disturbance; the perlice said he wouldn't 'ave it, and when the -perlice won't 'ave it, what's a poor man to do? They are that hignorant. -But what's the use of talking of it, it only riles me.' The blue-eyed man -lay back in his seat, and his head sank on his chest. He looked as if he -were going to sleep again, but on Hubert's asking him to explain his -troubles, he leaned across the table. - -'Well, I'll tell yer. Yer be an eddicated man, and I likes to talk to them -that 'as 'ad an eddication. Yer says, and werry truly, just now, that -changing the stable don't change an 'orse into a hass, or a hass into an -'orse. That is werry true, most true, none but a eddicated man could 'ave -made that 'ere hobservation. I likes yer for it. Give us yer 'and. The -public just thinks too much of the stable, and not enough of what's inside. -Leastways that's my experience of the public, and I 'ave been a-catering -for the public ever since I was a growing lad--sides of bacon, ships on -fire, good old ship on fire.... I knows the public. Yer don't follow me?' - -'Not quite.' - -'A moment, and I'll explain. You'll admit there's no blooming reason except -the public's blooming hignorance why a man shouldn't do as good a picture -on the pavement as on a piece of canvas, provided he 'ave the blooming -genius. There is no doubt that with them 'ere chalks and a nice smooth -stone that Raphael--I 'ave been to the National Gallery and 'ave studied -'is work, and werry fine some of it is, although I don't altogether -hold--but that's another matter. What was I a-saying of? I remember,--that -with them 'ere chalks, and a nice smooth stone, there's no reason why a -masterpiece shouldn't be done. That's right, ain't it? I ask you, as a man -of eddication, to say if that ain't right; as a representative of the -Press, I asks you to say.' Hubert nodded, and the pale-eyed man continued. -'Well, that's what the public won't see, can't see. Raphael, says I, could -'ave done a masterpiece with them 'ere chalks and a nice smooth stone. But -do yer think 'e 'd 'ave been allowed? Do yer think the perlice would 'ave -stood it? Do yer think the public would 'ave stood him doing masterpieces -on the pavement? I'd give 'im just one afternoon. Them boys would 'ave got -'im into trouble, just as they did me. Raphael would 'ave been told to wipe -them out just as I was.' - -The conversation paused; and, half amused, half frightened, Hubert -considered the pale vague face, and he was struck by the scattered look of -aspiration that wandered in the pale blue eyes. - -'I'll tell you,' said the man, growing more excited, and leaning further -across the table; 'I'll tell you, because I knows you for an eddicated man, -and won't blab. S'pose yer thinks, like the rest of the world, that the -chaps wot smears, for it ain't drawing, the pavement with bits of bacon, a -ship on fire, and the regulation oysters, does them out of their own -'eads?' Hubert nodded. 'I'm not surprised that you do, all the world do, -and the public chucks down its coppers to the poor hartist; but 'e aint no -hartist, no more than is them 'ere boys that did for my show.' Leaning -still further forward, he lowered his voice to a whisper. 'They learns it -all by 'art; there is schools for the teaching of it down in Whitechapel. -They can just do what they learns by 'art, not one of them could draw that -'ere chair or table from natur'; but I could. I 'ave an original talent. It -was a long time afore I found out it was there,' he said, tapping his -forehead; 'but it is there,' he said, fixing his eyes on Hubert, 'and when -it is there they can't take it away--I mean my mates--though they do laugh -at my ideas. They call me "the genius," for they don't believe in me, but I -believe in myself, and they laughs best that laughs last.... I don't know,' -he said, looking round him, his eyes full of reverie, 'that the public -liked my fancy landscapes better than the ship on fire, but I said the -public will come to them in time, and I continued my fancy landscapes. But -one day in Trafalgar Square it came on to rain very 'eavy, and I went for -shelter into the National Gallery. It was my fust visit, and I was struck -all of a 'eap, and ever since I can 'ardly bring myself to go on with the -drudgery of the piece of bacon, and the piece of cheese, with the mouse -nibbling at it. And ever since my 'ead 'as been filled with other things, -though for a long time I could not make exactly out what. I 'ave 'eard that -that is always the case with men that 'as an idea--daresay you 'ave found -it so yourself. So in my spare time I goes to the National to think it out, -and in studying the pictures there I got wery interested in a chap called -Hetty, and 'e do paint the female form divine. I says to myself, Why not go -in for lovely woman? the public may not care for fancy landscapes, but the -public allus likes a lovely woman, and, as well as being popular, lovely -woman is 'igh 'art. So, after dinner hour, I sets to work, and sketches in -a blue sea with three bathers, and two boxes, with the 'orse's head looking -out from behind one of the boxes. For a fust attempt at the nude, I assure -you--it ain't my way to blow my own trumpet, but I can say that the crowd -that 'ere picture did draw was bigger than any that 'ad assembled about the -bits o' bacon and ship-a-fire of all the other coves. 'Ad I been let alone, -I should 'ave made my fortune, but the crowd was so big and the curiosity -so great that it took the perlice all their time to keep the pavement from -being blocked. It wasn't that the public didn't like it enough, it was that -the public liked it too much, that was the reason of my misfortune.' - -'What do you mean?' said Hubert. - -'Well, yer see them boys was a-hawking their cheap toys in the -neighbourhood, and when they got wind of my success they comes round to -see, and they remains on account of the crowd. Pockets was picked, I don't -say they wasn't, and the perlice turned rusty, and then a pious old gent -comes along, and 'earing the remarks of them boys, which I admit wasn't -nice, complains to the hauthorities, and I was put down! Now, what I wants -to know is why my art should be made to suffer for the beastly-mindedness -of them 'ere boys.' - -Hubert admitted that there seemed to be an injustice somewhere, and asked -the artist if he had never tried again. - -'Try again? Should think I did. When once a man 'as tasted of 'igh art, he -can't keep his blooming fingers out of it. It was impossible after the -success of my bathers to go back to the bacon, so I thought I would -circumvent the hauthorities. I goes to the National Gallery, makes a -sketch, 'ere it is,' and after some fumbling in his breast pocket, he -produced a greasy piece of paper, which he handed to Hubert. 'S'pose yer -know the picture?' Hubert admitted that he did not. 'Well, that is a -drawing from Gainsborough's celebrated picture of Medora a-washing of her -feet.... But the perlice wouldn't 'ave it any more than my original, 'e -said it was worse than the bathers at Margaret, and when I told the -hignorant brute wot it was, 'e said he wanted no hargument, that 'e -wouldn't 'ave it.' - -Hubert had noticed, during the latter part of the narrative, a look of -dubious cunning twinkling in the pale eyes; but now this look died away, -and the eyes resumed their habitual look of vague reverie. - -'I've been 'ad up before the Beak: from him I expected more enlightenment, -but he, too, said 'e wouldn't 'ave it, and I got a month. But I'll beat -them yet, the public is on my side, and if it worn't for them 'ere boys, -I'd say that the public could be helevated. They calls me "the genius," and -they is right.' Then something seemed to go out like a flame, the face grew -dim, and changed expression. 'It is 'ere all right,' he said, no longer -addressing Hubert, but speaking to himself, 'and since it is there, it must -come out.' - - - - -IV - - -Hubert at last found himself obliged to write to Ford for an advance of -money. But Ford replied that he would advance money only on the delivery of -the completed manuscript. And the whole of one night, in a room hardly -eight feet long, sitting on his bed, he strove to complete the fourth and -fifth acts. But under the pressure of such necessity ideas died within him. -And all through the night, and even when the little window, curtained with -a bit of muslin hardly bigger than a pocket-handkerchief, had grown white -with dawn, he sat gazing at the sheet of paper, his brain on fire, unable -to think. Laying his pen down in despair, he thought of the thousands who -would come to his aid if they only knew--if they only knew! And soon after -he heard life beginning again in the little brick street. He felt that his -brain was giving way, that if he did not find change, whatever it was, he -must surely run raving mad. He had had enough of England, and would leave -it for America, Australia--anywhere. He wanted change. The present was -unendurable. How would he get to America? Perhaps a clerkship on board one -of the great steamships might be obtained. - -The human animal in extreme misery becomes self-reliant, and Hubert hardly -thought of making application to his uncle. The last time he had applied -for help his letter had remained unanswered, and he now felt that he must -make his own living or die. And, quite indifferent as to what might befall -him, he walked next day to the Victoria Docks. He did not know where or how -to apply for work, and he tired himself in fruitless endeavour. At last he -felt he could strive with fate no longer, and wandered mile after mile, -amused and forgetful of his own misery in the spectacle of the river--the -rose sky, the long perspectives, the houses and warehouses showing in fine -outline, and then the wonderful blue night gathering in the forest of masts -and rigging. He was admirably patient. There was no fretfulness in his -soul, nor did he rail against the world's injustice, but took his -misfortunes with sweet gentleness. - -He slept in a public-house, and next day resumed his idle search for -employment. The weather was mild and beautiful, his wants were simple, a -cup of coffee and a roll, a couple of sausages, and the day passed in a -sort of morose and passionless contemplation. He thought of everything and -nothing, least of all of how he should find money for the morrow. When the -day came, and the penny to buy a cup of coffee was wanting, he quite -naturally, without giving it a second thought, engaged himself as a -labourer, and worked all day carrying sacks of grain out of a vessel's -hold. For a large part of his nature was patient and simple, docile as an -animal's. There was in him so much that was rudimentary, that in accepting -this burden of physical toil he was acting not in contradiction to, but in -full and perfect harmony with, his true nature. - -But at the end of a week his health began to give way, and, like a man -after a violent debauch, he thought of returning to a more normal -existence. He had left the manuscript of his unfortunate play in the North. -Had they destroyed it? The involuntary fear of the writer for his child -made him smile. What did it matter? Clearly the first thing to do would be -to write to the editor of _The Cosmopolitan_, and ask if he could find him -some employment, something certain; writing occasional articles for -newspapers, that he couldn't do. - -Hubert had saved twelve shillings. He would therefore be able to pay his -landlady: he smiled--one of his landladies! The earlier debt was now -hopelessly out of his reach, and seemed to represent a social plane from -which he had for ever fallen. If he had succeeded in getting that play -right, what a difference it would have made! He would have been able to do -a number of things he had never done, things which he had always desired to -do. He had desired above all to travel--to see France and Italy; to linger, -to muse in the shadows of the world's past; and after this he had desired -marriage, an English wife, an English home, beautiful children, leisure, -the society of friends. A successful play would have given him all these -things, and now his dream must remain for ever unrealised by him. He had -sunk out of sight and hearing of such life. - -Rose was another; she might sink as he had sunk; she might never find the -opportunity of realising her desire. How well she would have played that -part! He knew what was in her. And now! What did his failure to write that -play condemn him to? Heaven only knows, he did not wish to think. Strange, -was it not strange?... A man of genius--many believed him a genius--and yet -he was incapable of earning his daily bread otherwise than by doing the -work of a navvy. Even that he could not do well, society had softened his -muscles and effeminised his constitution. Indeed, he did not know what life -fate had willed him for. He seemed to be out of place everywhere. His best -chance was to try to obtain a clerkship. The editor of _The Cosmopolitan_ -might be able to do that for him; if he could not, far better it would be -to leave a world in which he was _out of place_, and through no fault of -his own--that was the hard part of it. Hard part! Nonsense! What does Fate -know of our little rights and wrongs--or care? Her intentions are -inscrutable; she watches us come and go, and gives no sign. Prayers are -vain. The good man is punished, and the wicked is sent on his way -rejoicing. - -In such mournful thought, his clothes stained and torn, with all the traces -of a week's toil in the docks upon them, Hubert made his way round St. -Paul's and across Holborn. As he was about to cross into Oxford Street, he -heard some one accost him,-- - -'Oh, Mr. Price, is that you?' It was Rose. 'Where have you been all this -time?' - -She seemed so strange, so small, and so much alone in the great -thoroughfare, that Hubert forgot all his own troubles in a sudden interest -in this little mite. 'Where have you been hiding yourself?... It is lucky I -met you. Don't you know that Ford has decided to revive _Divorce_?' - -'You don't mean it!' - -'Yes; Ford said that the last acts of _The Gipsy_ were not satisfactorily -worked out, and as there was something wrong with that Hamilton Brown's -piece, he has decided to revive _Divorce_. He says it never was properly -played ... he thinks he'll make a hit in the husband's part, and I daresay -he will. But I have been unfortunate again; I wanted the part of the -adventuress. I really could play it. I don't look it, I know ... I have no -weight, but I could play it for all that. The public mightn't see me in it -at first, but in five minutes they would.' - -'And what part has he cast you for--the young girl?' - -'Of course; there's no other part. He says I look it; but what's the good -of looking it when you don't feel it? If he had cast me for Mrs. -Barrington, I should have had just the five minutes in the second act that -I have been waiting for so long, and I should have just wiped Miss Osborne -out, acted her off the stage.... I know I should; you needn't believe it if -don't like, but I know I should.' - -Hubert wondered how any one could feel so sure of herself, and then he -said, 'Yes, I think you could do just what you say.... How do you think -Miss Osborne will play the part?' - -'She'll be correct enough; she'll miss nothing, and yet somehow she'll miss -the whole thing. But you must go at once to Ford. He was saying only this -morning that if you didn't turn up soon, he'd have to give up the idea.' - -'I can't go and see him to-night. You see what a state I'm in.' - -'You're rather dusty; where have you been? what have you been doing?' - -'I've been down at the dock.... I thought of going to America.' - -'Well, we'll talk about that another time. It doesn't matter if you are a -bit dusty and worn-out-looking. Now that he's going to revive your play, -he'll let you have some money. You might get a new hat, though. I don't -know how much they cost, but I've five shillings; can you get one for -that?' - -Hubert thanked her. - -'But you are not offended?' - -'Offended, my dear Rose! I shall be able to manage. I'll get a brush up -somewhere.' - -'That's all right. Now I'm going to jump into that 'bus,' and she signed -with her parasol to the conductor. 'Mind you see Ford to-night,' she cried; -and a moment after he saw a small space of blue back seated against one of -the windows. - - - - -V - - -There was much prophecy abroad. Stiggins' words, 'The piece never did, and -never will draw money,' were evidently present in everybody's mind. They -were visible in Ford's face, and more than once Hubert expected to hear -that--on account of severe indisposition--Mr. Montague Ford has been -obliged to indefinitely postpone his contemplated revival of Mr. Hubert -Price's play _Divorce_. But, besides the apprehension that Stiggins' -unfavourable opinion of his enterprise had engendered in him, Ford was -obviously provoked by Hubert's reluctance to execute the alterations he had -suggested. Night after night, sometimes until six in the morning, Hubert -sat up considering them. Thanks to Ford's timely advance he was back in his -old rooms in Fitzroy Street. All was as it had been. He was working at his -play every evening, waiting for Rose's footsteps on the stairs. And yet a -change had come into his life! He believed now that his feet were set on -the way to fortune--that he would soon be happy. - -He stared at the bright flame of the lamp, he listened to the silence. The -clock chimed sharply, and the windows were growing grey. Hubert had begun -to drowse in his chair; but he had promised to rewrite the young girl's -part, Ford having definitely refused to intrust Rose with the part of the -adventuress. He was sorry for this. He believed that Rose had not only -talent, but genius. Besides, they were friends, neighbours; he would like -to give her a chance of distinguishing herself--the chance which she was -seeking. All the time he could not but realise that, however he might -accentuate and characterise the part of the sentimental girl, Rose would -not be able to do much with it. To bring out her special powers something -strange, wild, or tragic was required. But of what use thinking of what was -not to be? Having made some alterations and additions he folded his papers -up, and addressed them to Miss Massey. He wrote on a piece of paper that -they were to be given to her at once, and that he was to be called at ten. -There was a rehearsal at twelve. - -On the night of the first performance, Hubert asked Rose to dine in his -rooms. Mr. Wilson proposed that they should have a roast chicken, and Annie -was sent to fetch a bottle of champagne from the grocer's. Annie had been -given a ticket for the pit. Mrs. Wilson was going to the upper boxes. Annie -said,-- - -'Why, you look as if you was going to a funeral, and not to a play. Why -don't ye laugh?' - -In truth, Hubert and Rose were a little silent. Rose was thinking how she -could say certain lines. She had said them right once at rehearsal, but had -not since been able to reproduce to her satisfaction a certain effect of -voice. Hubert was too nervous to talk. There was nothing in his mind but -'Will the piece succeed? What shall I do if it fails?' He could give heed -to nothing but himself, all the world seemed blotted out, and he suffered -the pain of excessive self-concentration. Rose, on the other hand, had lost -sight of herself, and existed almost unconsciously in the soul of another -being. She was sometimes like a hypnotised spectator watching with foolish, -involuntary curiosity the actions of one whom she had been bidden to watch. -Then a little cloud would gather over her eyes, and then this other being -would rise as if out of her very entrails and recreate her, fashioning her -to its own image and likeness. - -She did not answer when she was spoken to, and when the question was -repeated, she awoke with a little start. Dinner was eaten in morbid -silence, with painful and fitful efforts to appear interested in each -other. Walking to the theatre, they once took the wrong turning and had to -ask the way. At the stage door they smiled painfully, nodded, glad to part. -Hubert went up to Montague Ford's room. He found the comedian on a low -stool, seated before a low table covered with brushes and cosmetics, in -front of a triple glass. - -'My dear friend, do not trouble me now. I am thinking of my part.' - -Hubert turned to go. - -'Stay a moment,' cried the actor. 'You know when the husband meets the wife -he has divorced?' - -Hubert remembered the moment referred to, and, with anxious, doubting eyes, -the comedian sought from the author justification for some intonations and -gestures which seemed to him to form part and parcel of the nature of the -man whose drunkenness he had so admirably depicted on his face. - -'"_This is most unfortunate, very unlucky--very, my dear Louisa; but----_" - -'"_I am no longer obliged to bear with your insults; I can now defend -myself against you._" - -[Illustration: "In the third row Harding stood talking to a young man."] - -'Now, is that your idea of the scene?' - -A pained look came upon Hubert's face. 'Don't question me now, my dear -fellow. I cannot fix my attention. I can see, however, that your make-up is -capital--you are the man himself.' - -The actor was satisfied, and in his satisfaction he said, 'I think it will -be all right, old chap.' - -Hubert hoped to reach his box without meeting critics or authors. The -serving-maids bowed and smiled,--he was the author of the play. 'They'll -think still more of me if the notices are right,' he thought, as he hurried -upstairs, and from behind the curtain of his box he peeped down and counted -the critics who edged their way down the stalls. Harding stood in the third -row talking to a young man. He said, 'You mean the woman with the black -hair piled into a point, and fastened with a steel circlet. A face of -sheep-like sensuality. Red lips and a round receding chin. A large bosom, -and two thin arms showing beneath the opera cloak, which she has not yet -thrown from her shoulders. I do not know her--_une laideur attirante_. Many -a man might be interested in her. But do you see the woman in the -stage-box? You would not believe it, but she is sixty, and has only just -begun to speak of herself as an old woman. She kept her figure, and had an -admirer when she was fifty-eight.' - -'What has become of him?' - -'They quarrelled; two years ago he told her he hoped never to see her ugly -old face again. And that delicate little creature in the box next to -her--that pale diaphanous face?' - -'With a young man hanging over her whispering in her ear?' - -'Yes. She hates the theatre; it gives her neuralgia; but she attends all -the first nights because her one passion is to be made love to in public. -If her admirer did not hang over her in front of the box just as that man -is doing, she would not tolerate him for a week.' - -At that moment the conversation was interrupted by a new-comer, who asked -if he had seen the play when it was first produced. - -'Yes,' said Harding; 'I did.' And he continued his search for acquaintances -amid white rows of female backs, necks, and half-seen profiles--amid the -black cloth shoulders cut sharply upon the illumined curtain. - -'And what do you think of it? Do you think it will succeed this time?' - -'Ford will create an impression in the part; but I don't think the piece -will run.' - -'And why? Because the public is too stupid?' - -'Partly, and partly because Price is only an intentionist. He cannot carry -an idea quite through.' - -'Are you going to write about it?' - -'I may.' - -'And what will you say?' - -'Oh, most interesting things to be said. Let's take the case of Hubert -Price ... Ah, there, the curtain is going up.' - -The curtain rolled slowly up, and in a small country drawing-room, in very -simple but very pointedly written dialogue, the story of Mrs. Holmes' -domestic misfortunes was gradually unfolded. It appeared that she had -flirted with Captain Grey; he had written her some compromising letters, -and she had once been to his rooms alone. So the Court had pronounced a -decree _nisi_. But Mrs. Holmes had not been unfaithful to her husband. She -had flirted with Captain Grey because her husband's attentions to a certain -Mrs. Barrington had maddened her, and in her jealous rage had written -foolish letters, and been to see Captain Grey. - -Hubert noticed that folk were still asking for their seats, and pushing -down the very rows in which the most influential critics were sitting. They -exchanged a salutation with their friends in the dress-circle, and, when -they were seated, looked around, making observations regarding the -appearance of the house; and all the while the actors were speaking. Hubert -trembled with fear and rage. Would these people never give their attention -to the stage? If they had been sitting by him, he could have struck them. -Then a line turned into nonsense by the actress who played Mrs. Holmes was -a lancinating pain; and the actor who played Captain Grey, played so slowly -that Hubert could hardly refrain from calling from his box. He looked round -the theatre, noticing the indifferent faces of the critics, and the women's -shoulders seemed to him especially vacuous and imbecile. - -The principal scene of the second act was between Mrs. Holmes and the man -who had divorced her. He has-been driven to drink by the vile behaviour of -his second wife; he is ruined in health and in pocket, and has come to the -woman he wronged to beg forgiveness; he knows she has learnt to love -Captain Grey, but will not marry him, because she believes that once -married always married. There is only one thing he can do to repair the -wrong he has done--he will commit suicide, and so enable her to marry the -man she loves. He tells her that he has bought the pistol to do it with, -and the words, 'Not here! not here!' escape from her; and he answers, 'No, -not here, but in a cab. I've got one at the door.' He goes out; Captain -Grey enters, and Mrs. Holmes begs him to save her husband. While they are -discussing how this is to be done, he re-enters, saying that his conscience -smote him as he was going to pull the trigger. Will she forgive him? If she -won't, he must make an end of himself. She says she will. - -In the third act Hubert had attempted to paint Mr. Holmes' vain efforts to -reform his life. But the constant presence of Captain Grey in the -household, his attempts to win Mrs. Holmes from her husband, and the -drunken husband's amours with the servant-maid disgusted rather than -horrified. In the fourth act the wretched husband admits that his -reformation is impossible, and that, although he has no courage to commit -suicide and set his wife free, he will return to his evil courses; they -will sooner or later make an end of him. The slowness and deadly gravity -with which Ford took this scene rendered it intolerable; and, -notwithstanding the beauty of the conclusion, when the deserted wife, in -the silence of her drawing-room, reads again Captain Grey's letter, telling -her that he has left England for ever, and with another, the success of the -play was left in doubt, and the audience filed out, talking, chattering, -arguing, wondering what the public verdict would be. - -To avoid commiseration of heartless friends and the triumphant glances of -literary enemies, Hubert passed through the door leading on to the stage. -Scene-shifters were brutally pushing away what remained of his play; and -the presence of Hamilton Brown, the dramatic author, talking to Ford, was -at that moment particularly disagreeable. On catching sight of Hubert, -Brown ran to him, shook him by the hand, and murmured some discreet -congratulations. He preferred the piece, however, as it had been originally -written, and suggested to Ford the advisability of returning to the first -text. Then Ford went upstairs to take his paint off, and Hubert walked -about the stage with Brown. Brown's insincerity was sufficiently -transparent; but men in Hubert's position catch at straws, and he soon -began to believe that the attitude of the public towards his play was not -so unfavourable as he had imagined. - -Hubert tried to summon up a smile for the stage-door keeper, who, he -feared, had heard that the piece had failed, and then the moment they got -outside he begged Rose to tell him the exact truth. She assured him that -Ford had said that he had always counted on a certain amount of opposition; -but that he believed that the general public, being more free of prejudice -and less sophisticated, would be impressed by the simple humanity of the -play. The conversation paused, and at the end of an irritating silence he -said, 'You were excellent, as good as any one could be in a part that did -not suit them. Ah, if he had cast you for the adventuress, how you would -have played it!...' - -'I'm so glad you are pleased. I hope my notices will be good. Do you think -they will?' - -'Yes, your notices will be all right,' he answered, with a sigh. - -'And your notices will be all right too. No one can say what is going to -succeed. There was a call after each of the last three acts.... I don't see -how a piece could go better. It is the suspense....' - -'Ah, yes, the suspense!' - -They lingered on the landing, and Hubert said, 'Won't you come in for a -moment?' She followed him into the room. His calm face, usually a perfect -picture of repose and self-possession, betrayed his emotion by a certain -blankness in the eyes, certain contractions in the skin of the forehead. -'I'm afraid,' he said, 'there's no hope.' - -'Oh, you mustn't say that!' she replied. 'I think it went very well -indeed.... I know I did nothing with the young girl. I oughtn't to have -undertaken the part.' - -'You were excellent. If we only get some good notices. If we don't, I shall -never get another play of mine acted.' He looked at her imploringly, -thirsting for a woman's sympathy. But the little girl was thinking of -certain effects which she would have made, and which the actress who had -played the adventuress had failed to make. - -'I watched her all the time,' she said, 'following every line, saying all -the time, "Oh yes, that's all very nice and very proper, my young woman; -but it's not it; no, not at all--not within a hundred miles of it." I don't -think she ever really touched the part--do you?' Hubert did not answer, and -a quiver of distraction ran through the muscles of her face. - -'Why don't you answer me?' - -'I can't answer you,' he said abruptly. Then remembering, he added, -'Forgive me; I can think of nothing now.' He hid his face in his hands, and -sobbed twice--two heavy, choking sobs, pregnant with the weight of anguish -lying on his heart. - -Seeing how much he suffered, she laid her hand on his shoulder. 'I am very -sorry; I wish I could help you. I know how it tears the heart when one -cannot get out what one has in one's brain.' - -Her artistic appreciation of his suffering only jarred him the more. What -he longed for was some kind, simple-hearted woman who would say, 'Never -mind, dear; the play was perfectly right, only they did not understand it; -I love you better than ever.' But Rose could not give him the sympathy he -wanted; and to be alone was almost a relief. He dared not go to bed; he sat -looking into space. The roar of London hushed till it was no more than a -faint murmur, the hissing of the gas grew louder, and still Hubert sat -thinking, the same thoughts battling in his brain. He looked into the -future, but could see nothing but suicide. His uncle? He had applied to him -before for help; there was no hope there. Then he tramped up and down, -maddened by the infernal hissing of the gas; and then threw himself into -his arm-chair. And so a terrible night wore away; and it was not until long -after the early carts had begun to rattle in the streets that exhaustion -brought an end to his sufferings, and he rolled into bed. - - - - -VI - - -'What will ye 'ave to eat? Eggs and bacon?' - -'No, no!' - -'Well, then, 'ave a chop?' - -'No, no!' - -'Ye must 'ave something.' - -'A cup of tea, a slice of toast. I'm not hungry.' - -'Well, ye are worse than a young lady for a happetite. Miss Massey 'as sent -you down these 'ere papers.' - -The servant-girl laid the papers on the bed, and Hubert lay back on his -pillow, so that he might collect his thoughts. Stretching forth his hands, -he selected the inevitable paper. - -'For those who do not believe that our English home life is composed -mainly, if not entirely, of lying, drunkenness, and conjugal infidelity, -and its sequel divorce, yester evening at the Queen's Theatre must have -been a sad and dismal experience. That men and women who have vowed to love -each other do sometimes prove false to their troth no reasonable man will -deny. With the divorce court before our eyes, even the most enthusiastic -believer in the natural goodness and ultimate perfectibility of human -nature must admit that men and women are frail. But drunkenness and -infidelity are happily not characteristic of our English homes. Then why, -we ask, should a dramatist select such a theme, and by every artifice of -dialogue force into prominence all that is mean and painful in an -unfortunate woman's life? Always the same relentless method; the cold, -passionless curiosity of the vivisector; the scalpel is placed under the -nerve, and we are called upon to watch the quivering flesh. Never the kind -word, the tears, the effusion, which is man's highest prerogative, and -which separates him from the brute and signifies the immortal end for which -he was created. We hold that it is a pity to see so much talent wasted, and -it was indeed a melancholy sight to see so many capable actors and -actresses labouring to----' - -'This is even worse than usual,' said Hubert; and glancing through half a -column of hysterical commonplace, he came upon the following:-- - -'But if this woman had succeeded in reclaiming from vice the man who -unjustly divorced her, and who in his misery goes back to ask her -forgiveness for pity's sake, what a lesson we should have had! And, with -lightened and not with heavier hearts, we should have left the theatre -comforted, better and happier men and women. But turning his back on the -goodness, truth, and love whither he had induced us to believe he was -leading us, the author flagrantly makes the woman contradict her whole -nature in the last act; and, because her husband falls again, she, instead -of raising him with all the tender mercies and humanities of wifehood, -declares that her life has been one long mistake, and that she accepts the -divorce which the Court had unjustly granted. The moral, if such a word may -be applied to such a piece is this: "The law may be bad, but human nature -is worse."' - -The other morning papers took the same view,--a great deal of talent wasted -on a subject that could please no one. Hubert threw the papers aside, lay -back, and in the lucid idleness of the bed his thoughts grew darker. It was -hardly possible that the piece could survive such notices; and if it did -not? Well, he would have to go. But until the piece was taken out of the -bills it would be a weakness to harbour the ugly thought. - -There were, however, the evening papers to look forward to, and soon after -midday Annie was sent to buy all that had appeared. Hubert expected to find -in these papers a more delicate appreciation of his work. Many of the -critics of the evening press were his personal friends, and nearly all were -young men in full sympathy with the new school of dramatic thought. He read -paper after paper with avidity; and Annie was sent in a cab to buy one that -had not yet found its way so far north as Fitzroy Street. The opinion of -this paper was of all importance, and Hubert tore it open with trembling -fingers. Although more temperately written than the others, it was clearly -favourable, and Hubert sighed a sweet sigh of relief. A weight was lifted -from him; the world suddenly seemed to grow brighter; and he went to the -theatre that evening, and, half doubting and half confidently, presented -himself at the door of Montague Ford's dressing-room. The actor had not yet -begun to dress, and was busy writing letters. He stretched his hand -hurriedly to Hubert. - -'Excuse me, my dear fellow; I have a couple of letters to finish.' - -Hubert sat down, glancing nervously from the actor to the morning papers -with which the table was strewn. There was not an evening paper there. Had -he not seen them? At the end of about ten minutes the actor said,-- - -'Well, this is a bad business; they are terribly down on us--aren't they? -What do you think?' - -'Have you seen the evening papers--_The Telephone_, for instance?' - -'Oh yes, I've seen them all; but the evening papers don't amount to much. -Stiggins's article was terrible. I am afraid he has killed the piece.' - -'Don't you think it will run, then?' - -'Well, that depends upon the public, of course. If they like it, I'll keep -it on.' - -'How's the booking?' - -'Not good.' Montague Ford moved his papers absent-mindedly. At the end of a -long silence he said, 'Even if the piece did catch on, it would take a lot -of working up to undo the mischief of those articles. Of course you can -rely on me to give it every chance. I shan't take it out of the bills if I -can possibly help.' - -'There is my _Gipsy_.' - -'I have another piece ready to put into rehearsal; it was arranged for six -months ago. I only consented to produce your play because--well, because -there has been such an outcry lately about art.... Tremendous part for me -in the new piece... I'm sure you'll like it.' - -The business did improve, but so very slowly that Hubert was afraid Ford -would lose patience and take the play out of the bills. But while the fate -of the play hung in the balance, Hubert's life was being rendered -unbearable by duns. They had found him out, one and all; to escape being -served was an impossibility; and now his table was covered with summonses -to appear at the County Court. This would not matter if the piece once took -the public taste. Then he would be able to pay every one, and have some -time to rest and think. And there seemed every prospect of its catching on. -Discussions regarding the morality of the play had arisen in the -newspapers, and the eternal question whether men and women are happier -married or unmarried had reached its height. Hubert spent the afternoon -addressing letters to the papers, striving to fan the flame of controversy. -Every evening he listened for Rose's footstep on the stairs.--How did the -piece go?--Was there a better house? Money or paper?--Have you seen the -notice in the ----?--First-rate, wasn't it?--That ought to do some -good.--I've heard there was a notice in the ----, but I haven't seen it. -Have you?--No; but So-and-so saw the paper, and said there was nothing in -it. And, do you know, I hear there's going to be a notice in _The Modern -Review_, and that So-and-so is writing it. - -Every post brought newspapers; the room was filled with newspapers--all -kinds of newspapers--papers one has never heard of,--French papers, Welsh -papers, North of England papers, Scotch and Irish papers. Hubert read -columns about himself, anecdotes of all kinds,--where he was born, who were -his parents, and what first induced him to attempt writing for the stage; -his personal appearance, mode of life, the cut of his clothes; his -religious, moral, and political views. Had he been the plaintiff in an -action for criminal libel, greater industry in the collection and the -fabrication of personal details could hardly have been displayed. - -But at these articles Hubert only glanced; he was interested in his piece, -not in himself, and when Annie brought up _The Modern Review_ he tore it -open, knowing he would find there criticism more fundamental, more -searching. But as he read, the expression of hope which his face wore -changed to one of pain pitiful to look upon. The article began with a -sketch of the general situation, and in a tone of commiseration, of -benevolent malice, the writer pointed out how inevitable it was that the -critics should have taken Mr. Price, when _Divorce_ was first produced, for -the new dramatic genius they were waiting for. 'There comes a moment,' said -this caustic writer, 'in the affairs of men when the new is not only -eagerly accepted, but when it is confounded with the original. Wearied by -the old stereotyped form of drama, the critics had been astonished by a -novelty of subject, more apparent than real, and by certain surface -qualities in the execution; they had hailed the work as being original both -in form and in matter, whereas all that was good in the play had been -borrowed from France and Scandinavia. _Divorce_ was the inevitable product -of the time. It had been written by Mr. Price, but it might have been -written by a dozen other young men--granting intelligence, youth, leisure, -a university education, and three or four years of London life--any one of -a dozen clever young men who frequent West End drawing-rooms and dabble in -literature might have written it. All that could be said was that the play -was, or rather had been, _dans le mouvement_; and original work never is -_dans le mouvement_. _Divorce_ was nothing more than the product of certain -surroundings, and remembering Mr. Price's other plays, there seemed to be -no reason to believe that he would do better. Mr. Price had tried his hand -at criticism, and that was a sure sign that the creative faculty had begun -to wither. His critical essays were not rich nor abundant in thought, they -were not the skirmishing of a man fighting for his ideas, they were not -preliminary to a great battle; they were at once vague and pedantic, -somewhat futile, _les ébats d'un esprit en peine_, and seemed to announce -a talent in progress of disintegration rather than of reconstruction. - -'Sometimes the critic's phrases seemed wet with tears; sometimes, -abandoning his tone of commiseration, he would assume one of scientific -indifference. The phenomenon was the commonest. There were dozens of Hubert -Prices in London. The universities and the newspapers, working singly and -in collaboration, turned them out by the dozen. And the mission of these -men of intelligent culture seemed to be to _poser des lapins sur la jeune -presse_. Each one came in turn with his little volume of poems, his little -play, his little picture; all were men of "advanced ideas"; in other words, -they were all _dans le mouvement_. There was the rough Hubert Price, who -made mild consternation in the drawing-room, and there was the -sophisticated Hubert Price, who cajoled the drawing-room; there was the -sincere and the insincere, and the Price that suffered and the Price that -didn't. Each one brought a different _nuance_, a thousand infinitesimal -variations of the type, but, considered merely in its relation to art, the -species may be said to be divided into two distinct categories. In the -first category are those who rise almost at the first bound to a certain -level, who produce quickly, never reaching again the original standard, -dropping a little lower at each successive effort until their work becomes -indistinguishable from the ordinary artistic commercialism of the time. The -fate of those in the second category is more pathetic; they gradually -wither and die away like flowers planted in a thin soil. Among these men -many noble souls are to be found, men who have surrendered all things for -love of their art, and who seemed at starting to be the best equipped to -win, but who failed, impossible to tell how or why. Sometimes their failure -turns to comedy, sometimes to tragedy. They may become refined, delicate, -elderly bachelors, the ornaments of drawing-rooms, professional -diners-out--men with brilliant careers behind them. But if fate has not -willed that they should retire into brilliant shells; if chance does not -allow them to retreat, to separate themselves from their kind, but -arbitrarily joins them to others, linking their fate to the fate of others' -unhappiness, disaster may and must accrue from the alliance; honesty of -purpose, trueness of heart, deep love, every great, good, and gracious -quality to be found in nature, will not suffice to save them.' - -The paper dropped from his hands, and he recollected all his failures. - -'Once I could do good work; now I can do neither good work nor bad. Were I -a rich man, I should collect my scattered papers and write songs to be sung -in drawing-rooms; but being a poor one, I must--I suppose I must get out. -Positively, there is no hope,--debts on every side. Fate has willed me to -go as went Haydon, Gerard de Nerval, and Maréchal. The first cut his -throat, the second hanged himself, and the third blew out his brains. -Clearly the time has come to consider how I shall make my exit. It is a -little startling to be called upon so peremptorily to go.' - -In this moment of extreme dejection it seemed to Hubert that the writer of -the article had told him the exact truth. He refused to admit the plea of -poverty. It was of course hard to write when one is being harassed by -creditors. But if he had had it in him, it would have come out. The critic -had very probably told him the truth. He could not hope to make a living -out of literature. He had not the strength to write the masterpiece which -the perverse cruelty of nature had permitted him only to see, and he was -hopelessly unfit for journalism. But in his simple, wholesome mind there -was no bent towards suicide; and he scanned every horizon. Once again he -thought of his uncle. Five years ago he had written, asking him for the -loan of a hundred pounds. He had received ten. And how vain it would be to -write a second time! A few pounds would only serve to prolong his misery. -No; he would not drift from degradation to degradation. - -He only glanced at the letter which Annie had brought up with the copy of -_The Modern Review_. It was clearly a lawyer's letter. Should he open it? -Why not spare himself the pain? He could alter nothing; and in these last -days---- Leaving the thought unfinished, he sought for his keys; he went to -his box, unlocked it, and took out a small paper package. Of the fifty -pounds he had received from Ford about twenty remained: he had been poorer -before, but hardly quite so hopeless. He scanned every horizon--all were -barred. The thought of suicide, and with it the instinctive shrinking from -it, came into his mind again. Suppose he took, that very night, an overdose -of chloral? He tried to put the thought from him, and returned, a little -dazed and helpless, to his chair. Had the critic in _The Modern Review_ -told him the truth? Was he incapable of earning a living? It seemed so. -Above all, was he incapable of finishing _The Gipsy_ as he intended? No; -that he felt was a lie. Give him six months' quiet, free from worry and all -anxiety, and he would do it. Many a year had passed since he had enjoyed a -month of quiet; and glancing again at the letter on the table, he thought -that perhaps at that very moment a score of gallery boys were hissing his -play. Perhaps at that very moment Ford was making up his mind to announce -the last six nights of _Divorce_. At a quarter to twelve he heard Rose's -foot on the stairs. He opened the door. - -'How did the piece go to-night?' - -'Pretty well.' - -'Only pretty well? Won't you come in for a few minutes?... So the piece -didn't go very well to-night?' - -'Oh yes, it did. I've seen it go better; but----' - -'Did you get a call?' - -'Yes, after the second act.' - -'Not after the third?' - -'No. That act never goes well. Harding came behind; I was speaking to him, -and he said something which struck me as being very true. Ford, he said, -plays the part a great deal too seriously. When the piece was first -produced, it was played more good-humouredly by indifferent actors, who let -the thing run without trying to bring out every point. Ford makes it as -hard as nails. I think those were his exact words.' - -Hubert did not answer. At the end of a long silence he said,-- - -'Did you hear anything about the last night's?' - -'No,' she said; 'I heard nothing of that.' - -'Ford appeared quite satisfied then?' - -'Yes, quite,' she answered, with difficulty; for his eyes were fixed on -her, and she felt he knew she was not telling the truth. The conversation -paused again, and to turn it into another channel she said, 'Why, you have -not opened your letter!' - -'I can see it is a lawyer's letter, on account of some unpaid bill. If I -could pay it, I would; but as I can't----' - -'You are afraid to open it,' said Rose. - -Ashamed of his weakness, Hubert opened the letter, and began to read. Rose -saw that the letter was not such an one as he had expected, and a moment -after his face told her that fortunate news had come to him. The signs of -the tumult within were represented by the passing of the hand across the -brow, as if to brush aside some strange hallucination, and the sudden -coming of a vague look of surprise and fear into the eyes. He said,-- - -'Read it! Read it!' - -Relieved of much detail and much cumbersome legal circumlocution, it was to -the following effect:--That about three months ago Mr. Burnett had come up -from his place in Sussex, and at the offices of Messrs. Grandly & Co. had -made a will, in which he had disinherited his adopted daughter, Miss Emily -Watson, and left everything to Mr. Hubert Price. There was no question as -to the validity of the will; but Messrs. Grandly deemed it their duty to -inform Mr. Hubert Price of the circumstances under which it had been made, -and also of the fact that a few weeks before his death Mr. Burnett had told -Mr. John Grandly, who was then staying with Mr. Burnett at Ashwood, that he -intended adding a codicil, leaving some two or three hundred a year to Miss -Watson. It was unfortunate that Mr. Burnett had not had time to do this; -for Miss Watson was an orphan, eighteen years of age, and entirely -unprovided for. Messrs. Grandly begged to submit these facts to the -consideration of Mr. Hubert Price. Miss Watson was now residing at Ashwood. -She was there with a friend of hers, Mrs. Bentley; and should Mr. Hubert -Price feel inclined to do what Mr. Burnett had left undone, Messrs. Grandly -would have very great pleasure in carrying his wishes into effect. - -'I'm not dreaming, am I?' - -'No, you are not. It is quite true. Your uncle has left his money to you. I -am so glad; indeed I am. You will be able to finish your play, and take a -theatre and produce it yourself if you like. I hope you won't forget me. I -do want to play that part. You can't quite know what I shall do with it. -One can't explain oneself in a scene here and there.... What are you -thinking of?' - -'I'm thinking of that poor girl, Emily Watson. It comes very hard upon -her.' - -'Who is she?' - -'The girl my uncle disinherited.' - -'Oh, she! Well, you can marry her if you like. That would not be a bad -notion. But if you do, you'll forget all about me and Lady Hayward.' - -'No; I shall never forget you, Rose.' He stretched his hand to her; but, -irrespective of his will, the gesture seemed full of farewell. - -'I'm so much obliged to you,' he said; 'had it not been for you, I might -never have opened that letter.' - -'Even if you hadn't, it wouldn't have mattered; you would have heard of -your good fortune some other way. But it is getting very late. I must say -good-night. I hope you will have a pleasant time in the country, and will -finish your play. Good-night.' - -Returning from the door, he stopped to think. 'We have been very good -friends--that is all. How strangely determined she is!... More so than I -am. She is bound to succeed. There is in her just that note of individual -passion.... Perhaps some one will find her out before I have -finished,--that would be a pity. I wonder which of us will succeed first?' - -Then the madness of good fortune came upon him suddenly; he could think no -more of Rose, and had to go for a long walk in the streets. - - - - -VII - - -'Dearest Emily, you must prepare yourself for the worst.' - -'Is he dead?' - -'Yes; he passed away quite quietly. To look at him one would say he was -asleep; he does not appear to have suffered at all.' - -'Oh, Julia, Julia, do you think he forgave me? I could not do what he asked -me.... I loved him very dearly as a father, but I could not have married -him.' - -'No, dear, you could not. Such a marriage would have been most unnatural; -he was more than forty years older than you.' - -'I do not think he ever thought of such a thing until about a month or six -weeks ago. You remember how I ran to you? I was as white as a ghost, and I -trembled like a leaf. I could hardly speak.... You remember?' - -'Yes, I remember; and some hours after, when I came into this room, he was -standing there, just there, on the hearth-rug; there was a fearful look of -pain and despair on his face--he looked as if he was going mad. I never saw -such a look before, and I never wish to see such a look again. And the -effort he made to appear unconcerned when he saw me was perhaps the worst -part of it. I pretended to see nothing, and walked away towards the window -and looked out. But all the while I could feel that some terrible drama was -passing behind me. At last I had to look round. He was sitting in that -chair, his elbows on his knees, clasping his head with both hands, the old, -gnarled fingers twined in the iron-grey hair. Then, unable to contain -himself any longer, he rushed out of the room, out of the house, and across -the park.' - -'You say that he passed away quietly; he did not seem to suffer at all?' - -'No, he never recovered consciousness.' - -'But do you think that my refusal to marry him had anything to do with his -death?' - -'Oh no, Emily; a fit of apoplexy, with a man of his age, generally ends -fatally.' - -'Even if I had known it all beforehand I don't think I could have acted -differently. I could not have married him. Indeed I couldn't, Julia, not -even if I knew I should save his life by doing so. I daresay it is very -wicked of me, but----' - -'Dearest Emily, you must not give way to such thoughts; you did quite right -in refusing to marry Mr. Burnett. It was very wrong of him even to think of -asking you, and if he had lived he would have seen how wrong it was of him -to desire such a thing.' - -'If he had lived! But then he didn't live, not even long enough to forgive -me, and when we think of how much he suffered--I don't mean in dying, you -say he passed away quietly, but all this last month how heart-broken he -looked! You remember when he sat at the head of the table, never speaking -to us, and how frightened I was lest I should meet him on the stairs; I -used to stand at the door of my room, afraid to move. I know he suffered, -poor old man. I was very, very sorry for him. Indeed I was, Julia, for I'm -not selfish, and when I think now that he died without forgiving me, I -feel, I feel--oh, I feel as if I should like to die myself. Why do such -things happen to me? I feel just as miserable now as I used to when I lived -with father and mother, who could not agree. I have often told you how -miserable I was then, but I don't think you ever quite understood. I feel -just the same now, just as if I never wanted to see any one or anything -again. I was so unhappy when I was a child, they thought I would die, and I -should have died if I had remained listening to father and mother any -longer. ... Every one thought I was so lucky when Mr. Burnett decided to -adopt me and leave me all his money, and he has done that, poor old man, so -I suppose I should be happy; but I'm not.' - -The girl's eyes turned instinctively towards the window and rested for a -moment on the fair, green prospects of the park. - -'I hated to listen to father and mother quarrelling, but I loved them, and -I had not been here a year before father died, and darling mother was not -long following him--only six months. Then I had no one: a few distant -relatives, whom I knew nothing of, whom I did not care for, so I gave all -my love to Mr. Burnett. He was so good to me; he never denied me anything; -he gave me everything, even you, dearest Julia. When he thought I wanted a -companion, he found you for me. I learnt to love you. You became my best -and dearest friend. Then things seemed to brighten up, and I thought I was -happy, when all this dreadful trouble came upon us. Don't let's speak of it -more than we can help. I often wished myself dead. Didn't you, Julia?' - -Emily Watson told the story of her misfortunes in a low, musical voice, -heedless of two or three interruptions, hardly conscious of her listener, -impressed and interested by the fatality of circumstances which she -believed in design against her. She was a small, slender girl of about -eighteen. Her abundant chestnut hair--exquisite, soft, and silky--was -looped picturesquely, and fastened with a thin tortoiseshell comb. The tiny -mouth trembled, and the large, prominent eyes reflected a strange, yearning -soul. She was dressed in white muslin, and the fantastically small waist -was confined with a white band. Her friend and companion, Julia Bentley, -was a woman of about thirty, well above the medium height, full-bosomed and -small-waisted. The type was Anglo-Saxon even to commonplace. The face was -long, with a look of instinctive kindness upon it. She was given to -staring, and as she looked at Emily, her blue eyes filled with an -expression which told of a nature at once affectionate and intelligent. She -was dressed in yellow linen, and wore a gold bracelet on a well-turned arm. - -The room was a long, old-fashioned drawing-room. It had three windows, and -all three were filled with views of the park, now growing pale in the -evening air. The flower-gardens were drawn symmetrically about the house -and were set with blue flower-vases in which there were red geraniums. It -was a very large room, nearly forty feet long, with old portraits on the -walls--ugly things and ill done; and where there were no portraits the -walls were decorated with vine leaves and mountains. The parqueted floor -was partially covered with skins, and the furniture seemed to have known -many a generation; some of it was heavy and cumbersome, some of it was -modern. There was a grand piano, and above it two full-length portraits--a -lady in a blue dress and a man in black velvet knee-breeches. At the end of -a long silence, Emily suddenly threw herself weeping into Julia's arms. - -'Oh, you are my only friend; you will not leave me now.... We shall always -love one another, shall we not? If anything ever came between us it would -kill me.... That poor old man lying dead up-stairs! He loved me very -dearly, and I loved him, too. Yet I said just now I could not have married -him even if I had known it would save his life. I was wrong; yes, I would -have married him if I had known.... You don't believe me?' - -'My dearest girl, you must try to forget that Mr. Burnett ever entertained -so foolish a thought. He was a very good man, and loved you for a long time -as he should have loved you--as a daughter. We shall respect his memory -best by forgetting the events of the last six weeks. And now, Emily, dinner -will be ready at seven o'clock, and it is now six. What are you going to -do?' - -'I shall go out for a little walk. I shall go down and see the swans.' - -'Shall I come with you?' - -'No, thank you, dear; I think I'd sooner be alone. I want to think.' - -Julia looked a moment anxiously at this fragile girl, whose tiny head was -poised on a long, delicate neck like a fruit on its stem. - -'Yes, go for a walk, dear,' said Julia; 'it will do you good. Shall I go -and fetch your hat and jacket?' - -'No, thank you, I will not trouble you; I'll go myself.' - -'No, Emily, I think you had better let me go.' - -'Oh, no; I am not afraid.' - -And she went up the wide oak staircase, thinking of the man who lay dead in -the room at the end of the passage. She was conscious of a sense of dread; -the house seemed to wear a strange air, and her dog, Dandy, was conscious -of it, too; he was more silent, less joyful than usual. And when she came -from her room, dressed to go out, instead of rushing down-stairs, barking -with joy, he dropped his tail and lingered at the end of the passage. She -called him; he still hesitated, and then, yielding to a sudden desire, she -went down the passage and knocked at the door of the room. The nurse -answered her knock. - -'Oh, don't come in, miss.' - -'Why not? I want to see him before he goes away for ever.' - -Upon the limp, white curtains of an old four-posted bed she saw the -memorable profile--stern, unrelenting. How still he lay! Never would that -face speak or laugh or see again. Although sixty-five, his head was covered -with short, thick, iron-grey hair; the beard, too, was short and thick, and -iron-grey. The face was rugged, and when Emily touched the coarse hand, -telling of a life of toil, she started--it was singularly cold. Fear and -sorrow in like measure choked her, and her soul awoke, and tremblingly she -walked out of the house, glad to breathe the sweet evening air. - -She walked towards the artificial water. The sky was melancholy and grey, -and the park lay before her, hushed and soundless. Through the shadows of -the darkening island two swans floated softly, leaving behind slight silver -lines; above, the swallows flew high in the evening. There was sensation of -death, too, in this cold, mournful water, and in the silence that hung -about it, and in some vague way it reminded Emily of her own life. She had -known little else but death; her life seemed full of death; and those -reflections, so distinct and so colourless, were like death. - -Then, in a sudden expansion of youth she wondered. Her own life, how -strange, how personal, how intense! What did it mean, what meaning had it -in the great, wide world? And the impressive tranquillity, the pale death -of the day, lying like a flower on the water, seemed to symbolise her -thought, and she felt more distinctly than she had ever done before. And -there arose in her a nervous and passionate interest in herself. She seemed -so strange, so wonderful. Her childhood was in itself an enigma. That sad -and sorrowful childhood of hers, passed in that old London house; her -mother's love for her; her cruel, stern stepfather, and the endless -quarrels between her father and mother, which made her young life so -unbearable, so wretched, that she could never think of those years without -tears rising to her eyes. And then the going away, coming to live with Mr. -Burnett! The death of her father and her dear mother, so sudden, following -so soon one after the other. How much there had been in her life, how -wonderful it was! Her love of Mr. Burnett, and then that bitter and -passionate change in him! That proposal of marriage; could she ever forget -it? And then this cruel and sudden death. Everything she had ever loved had -been taken from her. Only Julia remained, and should Julia be taken from -her, she felt that she must die. But that would not, could not, happen. She -was now mistress of Ashwood, she was a great heiress; and she and Julia -would live always together, they would always love one another, they would -always live here in this beautiful place which they loved so well. - - - - -VIII - - -There were at the funeral a few personal friends who lived in the -neighbourhood, the farmers on the estate, and the labourers; and when the -little crowd separated outside the church, Emily and Julia walked back to -Ashwood with Mr. Grandly, Mr. Burnett's intimate friend and solicitor. They -returned through the park, hardly speaking at all, Emily absent-minded as -usual, waving her parasol occasionally at a passing butterfly. The grass -was warm and beautiful to look on, and they lingered, prolonging the walk. -It was very good of Mr. Grandly to accompany them back; he might have gone -on straight to the station, so Julia thought, and she was surprised indeed -when, instead of bidding them good-bye at the front door, he said-- - -'Before I return to London I have a communication to make to both you -ladies. Will it suit you to come into the drawing-room with me?' - -'Perfectly, so far as I'm concerned; and you, Emily?' - -'Oh, I've nothing to do; but if it is about business, Julia will -attend----' - -'I think you had better be present, Miss Watson.' - -Mr. Grandly was a tall, massive man with benevolent features; his bald, -pink skull was partly covered with one lock of white hair. There was an -anxious look in his pale, deep-set eyes which impressed Julia, and she -said: 'I hope this communication you have to make to us is not of a painful -nature. We have----' - -'Yes, Mrs. Bentley, I know that you have been severely tried lately, but -there is no help for it. I cannot keep you in ignorance any longer of -certain facts relating to Mr. Burnett's will.' The words 'will' and 'facts' -struck on Emily's ear. She had been thinking about her fortune. The very -ground she was walking on was hers. She was the owner of this beautiful -park; it seemed like a fairy tale. And that house, that dear, old-fashioned -house, that rambling, funny old place of all sizes and shapes, full of deep -staircases and pictures, was hers. Her eyes wandered along the smooth wide -drive, down to the placid water crossed by the great ornamental bridge, the -island where she had watched the swans floating last night--all these -things were hers. So the words 'will' and 'facts' and 'ignorance of them' -jarred her clutching little dream, and she turned her eyes--they wore an -anxious look--towards Mr. Grandly, and said with an authoritative air: -'Yes, let us go into the drawing-room; I want to hear what Mr. Grandly has -to say about----Let us go into the drawing-room at once.' - -Julia took the chair nearest to her. Emily stood at the window, waiting -impatiently for Mr. Grandly to begin. He laid his hat on the parquet, wiped -his forehead with his handkerchief, and drew an arm-chair forward. 'Mr. -Burnett, as you know, made a will some years ago, in favour of his cousin -and adopted daughter, Miss Emily Watson. In that will he left his entire -fortune to her, Ashwood Park and all his invested money. No other person -was mentioned in that will, except Miss Watson. It was I who drew up this -will. I remember discussing its provisions with Mr. Burnett, and advising -him to leave something, even if it were only a few hundred pounds, to his -nephew, Hubert Price. But Mr. Burnett was always a very headstrong man; he -had quarrelled with this young man, as he said, irreparably, and could not -be induced to leave him even a hundred pounds. I thought this was harsh, -and as Mr. Burnett's friend I told him so--I have always been opposed to -extreme measures,--but he was not to be gainsaid. So the matter remained -for many years; never did Mr. Burnett mention his nephew's name. I thought -he had forgotten the young man's existence, when, suddenly, without -warning, Mr. Burnett came into my office and told me that he intended to -alter his will, leaving all his property to his nephew, Hubert Price. You -know what old friends we were, and, presuming on our friendship, I told him -what I thought of his project of disinheritance, for it amounted to that. -Well, suffice it to say, we very nearly quarrelled over the matter. I -refused to draw up the will, so iniquitous did it seem to me. He said: -"Very well, Grandly, I'll go elsewhere." Then I remembered that if I -allowed him to go elsewhere I should lose all hold over him, and I -consented to draw up the will.' - -Emily listened, a vague expression of pain in her pathetic eyes. Then this -house, this room where she was sitting, was not hers, and a strange man -would come soon and drive her away! - -'And he has left Ashwood to Mr. Price, is not that his name?' she said, -abruptly. - -'Yes; he has left Ashwood to Mr. Price.' - -'And when did he make this new will?' - -'I think it is just about a month ago.' - -Emily leaned forward, and her great eyes, full of light and sorrow, were -fixed in space, her little pale hands linked, and the great mass of -chestnut hair slipping from the comb. She was, in truth, at that moment the -subject of a striking picture, and she was even more impressive when she -said, speaking slowly: 'Then that old man was even wickeder than I thought. -Oh, what I have learned in the last three or four weeks! Oh, what -wickedness, what wickedness!... But go on,' she said, looking at Mr. -Grandly; 'tell me all.' - -'I suppose there was some very serious reason, but on that point Mr. -Burnett absolutely refused to answer me. He said his reasons were his own, -and that he intended to leave his money to whom he pleased.' - -'There was----' Julia stopped short, and looked interrogatively at Emily. - -'Go on, Julia, tell him; we have nothing to conceal.' - -'Mr. Burnett asked Emily to marry him a short time ago; she, of course, -refused, and ever since he seemed more like----' - -'A madman than anything else,' broke in Emily. 'Oh, for the last month we -have led a miserable life! It was a happy release.' - -'Is it possible,' said Mr. Grandly, 'that Mr. Burnett seriously -contemplated marriage with Miss Watson?' - -'Yes, and her refusal seemed to drive him out of his mind.' - -'I never was more surprised.' The placid face of the eminently respectable -solicitor lapsed into contemplation. 'I often tried,' he said, suddenly, -'to divine the reason why he changed his will. Disappointed love seemed the -only conceivable reason, but I rejected it as being quite inconceivable. -Well, it only shows how little we know what is passing in each other's -minds.' - -'Then,' said Julia, 'Mr. Burnett has divided his fortune, leaving Ashwood -to Mr. Price, and all his invested money to Emily?' - -A look of pain passed over Mr. Grandly's benevolent face, and he answered: -'Unfortunately he has left everything to Mr. Price.' - -'I'm glad,' exclaimed Emily, 'that he has left me nothing. Once he thought -fit to disinherit me because I would not marry him, I prefer not to have -anything to do with his money.' - -Mr. Grandly and Julia looked at each other; they did not need to speak; -each knew that the girl did not realise at once the full and irretrievable -nature of this misfortune. The word 'destitute' was at present unrealised, -and she only thought that she had been deprived of what she loved best in -the world--Ashwood. Mr. Grandly glanced at her, and then speaking a little -more hurriedly, said-- - -'I was saying just now that I only consented to draw up the will so that I -might be able at some future time to induce Mr. Burnett to add a codicil to -it. Later on I spoke to him again on the subject, and he promised to -consider it, and a few days after he wrote to me, saying that he had -decided to take my advice and add a codicil. Subsequently, in another -letter he mentioned three hundred a year as being the sum he thought he -would be in honour bound to leave Miss Watson. Unfortunately, he did not -live long enough to carry this intention into execution. But the letters he -addressed to me on the subject exist, and I have every hope that the heir, -Mr. Price, will be glad to make some provision for his cousin.' - -'Have you any reason for thinking that Mr. Price will do so?' said Julia. - -'No. But it seems impossible for any honourable man to act otherwise.' - -'He cannot bear enmity against Emily, who of course knew nothing of his -quarrel with his uncle. Do you know anything about Mr. Price? What is he? -Where does he live?' - -'He is a literary man, I believe. I have heard that he writes plays!' - -'Oh, a writer of plays.' - -'Yes. I am glad of it; he may be easier to deal with. I daresay it is a -mistaken notion, but one is apt to imagine that these artist folk are more -generous with their money than ordinary mortals.' - -'Is he married?' said Julia, and involuntarily she glanced toward Emily. - -Mr. Grandly, too, looked toward the girl, and then he said: 'I don't know -if Mr. Price is married; I hope not.' - -'Why do you hope so?' said Emily, suddenly. - -'Because if he isn't, there will only be one person to deal with. If he had -a wife, she would have a voice in the matter; and in such circumstances as -ours a man is easier to deal with. I earnestly hope Mr. Hubert Price is not -married, and shall consider it a great point in our favour if on returning -to town I find he is not.' Then assuming a lighter tone, for the nervous -strain of the last ten minutes had been intense, he said: 'If he is not -married, who knows--you may take a fancy to him, and he to you; then things -would be just the same as before--only better.' - -'I should not marry him--I hate him already. I wonder how you can think of -such a thing, Mr. Grandly? You know that he must be a very wicked man for -uncle to have disinherited him. I have always heard that--but I don't know -what I am saying.' Tears welled up into her eyes. 'I daresay my cousin is -not so bad as--but I can talk no more.... I am very miserable, I have -always been miserable, and I don't know why; I never did harm to any one.' - -Soon after Mr. Grandly bade the ladies good-bye. Julia followed him to the -front door. 'You will do all you can to help us? That poor child is too -young, too inexperienced, to realise what her position is.' - -'I know, I know,' said Mr. Grandly, extending both hands to Julia; 'in the -whole course of my experience I never met with a sadder case. But we must -not take too sad a view of it. Perhaps all will come right in the end. The -young man cannot refuse to make good his uncle's intentions. He cannot see -his cousin go to the workhouse. I will do the best I can for you. The -moment I get back to London, I'll set inquiries on foot and find out his -address, and when I have seen him I'll write. Good-bye.' - -Then, resolving that it were better to leave the girl to herself, Julia -took up her key-basket and hurried away on household business. But in the -middle of her many occupations she would now and then stop short to think. -She had never heard of anything so cruel before. That poor girl--she must -go to her; she must not leave her alone any longer. But it would be well to -avoid the subject as much as possible. She must think of something to -distract her thoughts. The pony-chaise. It might be the last time they had -a carriage to go out in. But they could not go out driving on the day of -the funeral. - -That evening, as they were going to bed, Emily said, lifting her sweet, -pathetic little face, looking all love and gentleness: 'Oh, to think of a -common, vulgar writer coming here, with a common, vulgar wife and a horrid -crowd of children. Oh, Julia, doesn't it seem impossible? And yet I suppose -it is true. I cannot bear to think of it. I can see the horrid children -tramping up and down the stairs, breaking the things we have known and -loved so long; and they will destroy all my flowers, and no one will -remember to feed the poor swans. Dandy, my beloved, I shall be able to take -you with me.' And she caught up the rough-haired terrier and hugged him, -kissing his dear old head. 'Dandy is mine; they can't take him from me, can -they? But do you think the swans belong to them or to us? I suppose it -would be impossible to take them with us if we go to live in London. They -couldn't live in a backyard.' - -'But, dearest Emily, who are "they"? You don't know that he is -married--literary men don't often marry. For all you know, he is a handsome -young man, who will fall madly in love with you.' - -'No one ever fell in love with me except that horrid old man--how I hate -him, how I detest to think of it! I thought I should have died when he -asked to marry me. The very memory of it is enough to make me hate all men, -and prevent me from liking any one. I don't think I could like him; I -should always see that wicked old man's hoary, wrinkled face in his.' - -'Oh, Emily, I cannot think how such ideas can come into your head. It is -not right, indeed it isn't.' And this simple Englishwoman looked at this -sensitive girl in sheer wonderment and alarm. - -'I only say what I think. I am glad the old man did disinherit me. I'm glad -we are leaving Ashwood; I cannot abide the place when I think of him.... -There, that is his chair. I can see him sitting in it now. He is grinning -at us; he is saying, "Ha! ha! I have made beggars of you both." You -remember how we used to tremble when we met his terrible old face on the -stairs; you remember how he used to sit glaring at us all through dinner?' - -'Yes, Emily, I remember all that; but I do not think it natural that you -should forget all the years of kindness; he was very good to you, and loved -you very much, and if he forgot himself at the end of his life, we must -remember the weakness of age.' - -'The hideousness of age,' Emily replied, in a low tone. The conversation -paused, and then Julia said-- - -'You are speaking wildly, Emily, and will live to regret your words. Let us -speak no more of Mr. Burnett... I daresay you will find your cousin a -charming young man. I should laugh if it were all to end in a marriage. And -how glad I should be to see you off on your honeymoon, to bid you -good-bye!' - -'Oh, Julia, don't speak like that; you will never bid me good-bye. You will -never leave me--promise me that--you are my only friend. Oh, Julia, promise -me that you will never leave me.' - -Tears rose in Julia's eyes, and taking the girl in her arms, she said, -'I'll never leave you, my dear girl, until you yourself wish it.' - -'I wish it? Oh, Julia, you do not know me. I have lost everything, Julia, -but I mustn't lose you... After all, it doesn't so much matter, so long as -we are not separated. I don't care about money, and we can have a nice -little house in London all to ourselves. And if we get too hard up, we'll -both go out as daily governesses. I think I could teach a little music, to -young children, you know; you'd teach the older ones.' Emily looked at -Julia inquiringly, and going over to the piano, attempted to play her -favourite polka. Julia, who had once worked for her daily bread, and earned -it in a sort of way by giving music-lessons, smiled sadly at the girl's -ignorance of life. - -'I see,' said Emily, who was quick to divine every shade of sentiment -passing in the minds of those she loved; 'you don't think I could teach -even the little children.' - -'My dear Emily, I hope it will never come to your having to try.' - -'I must do something to get a living,' she replied, looking vaguely and -wistfully into the fire. 'How unfortunate all this is--that horrid, horrid -old man. But supposing he had asked you to marry him--he wasn't nice, but -you are older than I, and if you had married him you would have become, in -a way, my stepmother. But what a charming stepmother! Oh, how I should have -loved that!' - -'Come, Emily, it is time to go to bed; you let your imagination run away -with you.' - -'Julia, you are not cross because----' - -'No, dear, I'm not cross. I'm only a little tired. We have talked too -long.' - -Emily's allusion to music-teaching had revived in Julia all her most -painful memories. If this man were to cast them penniless out of Ashwood! -Supposing, supposing that were to happen? Starving days, pale and haggard, -rose up in her memory. What should she do, what should she do, and with -that motherless girl dependent on her for food and clothes and shelter? She -buried her face in the pillow and prayed that she might be saved from such -a destiny. - -If this man--this unknown creature--were to refuse to help them, she and -Emily would have to go to London, and she would have to support Emily as -best she might. She would hold to her and fight for her with all her -strength, but would she not fall vanquished in the fight; and then, and -then? The same thoughts, questions, and fears turned in her head like a -wheel, and it was not until dawn had begun to whiten the window-panes that -she fell asleep. - -A few days after, the post brought a letter for Julia. After glancing -hastily down the page she said: 'This is a letter from Mr. Grandly, and it -is good news. Oh, what a relief!...' - -'Read it.' - -'"Dear Mrs. Bentley,--Immediately I arrived in London, I set to work to -find out Mr. Price's address. It was the easiest matter in the world, for -he has a play now running at one of the theatres. So I directed my letter -to the theatre, and next morning I had a visit from him. After explaining -to him the resources of the brilliant fortune he had come into, I told him -of his uncle's intention to add a codicil to his will, leaving Miss Watson -three hundred a year; I told him that this last will had left her entirely -unprovided for. He said, at once, that he fully agreed with me, and that he -would consider what was the most honourable course for him to take in -regard to his 'cousin. This is exactly what he said, but his manner was -such that before leaving he left no doubt in my mind whatever that he will -act very generously indeed. I should not be surprised if he settled even -more than the proposed three hundred a year on Miss Watson. He is a very -quiet, thoughtful young man of about two or three and thirty. He looks -poor, and I fancy he has lived through very hard times. He wears an air of -sadness and disappointment which makes him attractive, and his manners are -gentle and refined. I tell you these things, for I know they will interest -you. I have not been able to find out if he is married, but I am sorry to -say that his play has not succeeded. I should have found out more, but he -was not in my office above ten minutes; he had to hurry away to keep an -appointment at the theatre, for, as he explained, it was to be decided that -very day if the play was to be taken out of the bills at the end of the -week. He promised to call again, and our interview is fixed for eleven -o'clock the day after to-morrow. In the meantime take heart, for I think I -am justified in telling you I feel quite sanguine as to the result."' - -'Well,' said Julia, laying down the letter, 'I don't think that anything -could be more satisfactory, and just fancy dear old Mr. Grandly being able -to describe a young man as well as that.' - -'He doesn't say if he is short or tall, or dark or fair.' - -'No, he doesn't. I think he might have told us something about his personal -appearance, but it is a great relief to hear that he is not the vulgar -Bohemian we have always understood him to be. Mr. Grandly says his manners -are refined; you might take a fancy to him after all.' - -'But you don't know that he isn't married. I suppose Mr. Grandly wasn't -able to find that out. I should like to know--but not because I want to -marry him or any one else; only I don't like the idea of a great, vulgar -woman, and a pack of children scampering about the place when we go.' - -'Do you dislike children so much, then, Emily?' - -'I don't know that I ever thought about them; but I'm sure I shouldn't like -his children. I dreamt of him last night. Do you believe in dreams?' - -'What did you dream?' - -'I cannot remember, but I woke up crying, feeling more unhappy than I ever -felt in my life before. It is curious that I should dream of him last -night, and that you should receive that letter this morning, isn't it?' - -'I don't see anything strange in it. Nothing more natural than that you -should dream about him, and it was certain that I should receive a letter -from Mr. Grandly; he promised to write to me in a few days.' - -'Then you believe what is in that letter--I don't. Something tells me that -he will not act kindly, but I don't know how.' - -'I'm quite sure you are wrong, Emily. Mr. Grandly would never have written -this letter unless he knew for certain that Mr. Price would do all or more -than he promised.' - -'I can't see from the letter that he has promised anything... Even if he -does give me three hundred a year, I shall have to leave Ashwood.' - -'My dear Emily, I'm cross with you: of course, if you will insist on always -looking at the melancholy side.... Now I'm going; I've to see after the -housekeeping. Are you going into the garden?' - -'Yes, presently.' - -Emily did not seem to know what she was going to do. She looked out of the -window, she lingered in the corridor; finally she wandered into the -library. The quaint, old-fashioned room recalled her childhood to her. It -was here she used to learn her lessons. Here was the mahogany table, at -which she used to sit with her governess, learning to read and write; and -there, far away at the other end of the long room, was the round table, -where lay the old illustrated editions of _Gulliver's Travels_ and _The -Arabian Nights_, which she used to run to whenever her governess left the -room. And at the bottom of the book-cases there were drawers full of -strange papers; these drawers she used to open in fear and trembling, so -mysterious did they seem to her. And there was the book-cases full of the -tall folios, behind which lay, in dark and dim recesses, stores of books -which she used to pull out, expecting at every moment to come upon -long-forgotten treasures. She smiled now, as she recalled these childish -imaginings, and lifting tenderly the coarse drugget, she looked at the -great green globe which her fingers used to turn in infantile curiosity. - -Then leaving the library, she roamed through the house, pausing on the -first landing to gaze on the picture of the fine gentleman in a red coat, -his hand for ever on his sword. She remembered how she used to wonder whom -he was going to kill, and how sure she used to feel that at last he would -grant his adversary his life. And close by was the picture of the -wind-mill, set on the edge of the down, with the shepherd driving sheep in -the foreground. Her whole life seemed drenched with tears at the thought of -parting with these things. Every room was full of memories for her. She was -a little girl when she came to live at Ashwood, and the room at the top of -the stairs had been her nursery. There were the two beds; both were now -dismantled and bare. It was in the little bed in the corner that she used -to sleep; it was in the old four-poster that her nurse slept. And there was -the very place, in front of the fire, where she used to have her tea. The -table had disappeared, and the grate, how rusty it was! In the far corner, -by the window, there used to be a press, in which nurse kept tea and sugar. -That press had been removed. The other press was there still, and throwing -open the doors she surveyed the shelves. She remembered the very peg on -which her hat and jacket used to hang. And the long walks in the great -park, which was to her, then, a world of wonderment! - -She wandered about the old corridor, in and out of odd rooms, all -associated with her childhood--quaint old rooms, many of them lumber rooms, -full of odd corners and old cupboards, the meaning of which she used to -strive to divine. How their silence and mystery used to thrill her little -soul! Faded rooms whose mystery had departed, but whose gloom was haunted -with tenderest recollections. In one corner was the reading-chair in which -Mr. Burnett used to sit. At that time she used to sit on his knee, and when -the chair gave way beneath their weight, he had said she was too big a girl -to sit on his knee any longer. The words had seemed to her a little cruel. -She had forgotten the old chair, but now she remembered the very moment -when the servants came to take it away. - -Under the window were some fragments of a china bowl which she had broken -when quite a little child. There was a hoop-stick and the hoop which had -been taken down to the blacksmith's to be mended. He had mended it, but she -did not remember ever using it again. And there was an old box of -water-colours, with which she used to colour all the uncoloured drawings in -her picture-books. Emily took the hoop-stick, the old doll, and the broken -box of water-colours, and packed them away carefully. She would be able to -find room for them in the little house in London where she and Julia were -going to live. - -A few days after, the post brought letters from Mr. Grandly, one for Emily -and one for Julia. Julia's letter ran as follows: - -'Dear Mrs. Bentley,---I write by this post to Miss Watson, advising her -that her cousin, Mr. Price, is most anxious to make her acquaintance, and -asking her to send the dog-cart to-morrow to meet him at the station. I -must take upon myself the responsibility for this step. I have seen Mr. -Price again, and he has confirmed me in my good opinion of him. He seems -most anxious, not only to do everything right, but to make matters as -pleasant and agreeable as possible for his cousin. He has written me a -letter recognising Miss Watson's claim upon him, and constituting himself -her trustee. I have not had yet time to prepare a deed of gift, but there -can be little doubt that Miss Watson's position is now quite secure. So far -so good; but more than ever does the only clear and satisfactory way out of -this miserable business seem to me to be a marriage between Mr. Hubert -Price and Miss Watson. I have already told you that he is a nice, refined -young man, of gentlemanly bearing, good presence, and excellent speech, -though a trifle shy and reserved; and, as I have since discovered that he -is not married, I have taken upon myself the responsibility of advising him -to jump into a train and to go and tell his cousin the conclusion he has -come to regarding the will of the late Mr. Burnett. As I have said, he is a -shy man, and it was some time before I could induce him to take so decisive -a step; he wanted to meet Miss Watson in my office, but I succeeded in -persuading him. He will go down to you to-morrow by the five o'clock, and I -need not impress upon you the necessity that you should use your influence -with Miss Watson, and that his reception should be as cordial as -circumstances permit. I have only to add that I see no need that you should -show this letter to Miss Watson, for the very fact of knowing that we -desired to bring about a marriage might prejudice her against this young -man, whom she otherwise cannot fail to find charming.' - -Hearing some one at her door, Julia put the letter away. It was Emily. - -'I've just received a letter from Mr. Grandly, saying that that man is -coming here to-day, and that we are to send the dog-cart for him.' - -'Is not that the very best thing that----' - -'We cannot remain here, we must leave a note for him, or something of that -kind. I wouldn't remain here to meet him for worlds. I really couldn't, -Julia.' - -'And why not, Emily?' - -'To meet the man who is coming to turn me out of Ashwood!' - -'How do you know that he is coming to turn you out of Ashwood? You imagine -these things.... Do you suppose that Mr. Grandly would send him down here -if he did not know what his intentions were?' - -'But we shall have to leave Ashwood.' - -'Very likely, but not in the way you imagine. Remember, Mr. Price is your -cousin; you may like him very much. Let's be guided by Mr. Grandly; I have -not seen your letter, but apparently he advises us to remain here and -receive him.' - -'I don't think I can, Julia. I have misgivings.' - -'Have you been dreaming again?' - -'No; I've not been dreaming, but I have misgivings.' - -'You are a silly little goose, Emily. Come and give me a kiss, and promise -to take my advice.' - -'Dearest Julia, you do love me, don't you? Promise me that we shall not be -separated, and then I don't mind.' - -'Yes, dear, I promise you that, and you will promise me to try to like your -cousin?' - -'I'll try, Julia, but I'm awfully frightened, and--I don't think I could -like him, no matter what he was like. I feel a sort of hatred in my heart. -Don't you know what I mean?' And the girl looked questioningly into her -friend's eyes. - - - - -IX - - -'I am Miss Watson,' she said in her low musical voice, 'and this is my -friend, Mrs. Bentley.' Hubert bowed, and sought for words. He found none, -and the irritating silence was broken again by Miss Watson. 'Won't you sit -down?' she said. - -'Thank you.' He pulled off his gloves. The pained, troubled look which he -had met in Miss Watson's face seemed a reproach, and he regretted not -having followed his own idea, and invited the young lady to meet him at Mr. -Grandly's office. He glanced nervously from one lady to the other. - -'I hope you have had a pleasant journey, Mr. Price,' said Mrs. Bentley. -'The country is looking very beautiful just at present. Do you know this -part of the country?' Mrs. Bentley's words were very welcome, and Hubert -replied eagerly-- - -'No; I do not know the country at all well. I have been very little out of -London for some years, but I hope now to see more of the country. This is a -beautiful place.' - -At that moment he met Mrs. Bentley's eyes, and, feeling that he was -touching on delicate ground, he stopped speaking. When he turned his head, -he met Miss Watson's great sad eyes, which seemed to absorb the entire -face, fixed upon him. They expressed such depth of pathetic appeal that he -trembled with apprehension, and the instinct in him was to beg for pardon. -But it became suddenly necessary to say something, and, speaking at random, -his head full of whirling words, he said-- - -'Of course nothing could be more sad than my poor uncle's death,--so -unexpected... Having lived so long together, you must have----' Then it was -Hubert's turn to look appealingly at Miss Watson; but her great eyes seemed -to say, 'Go on, go on; heap cruelty on cruelty!' Then he plunged -desperately, hoping to retrieve his mistakes. 'He died about a month ago. -Mr. Grandly told me I should still find you here, so I thought----' - -The intensity of his emotion perhaps caused Hubert to accentuate his words, -so that they conveyed a meaning different from that which he intended. -Certainly his hesitations were capable of misinterpretation, and Miss -Watson said, her voice trembling,-- - -'Of course we know we have no right here, we are intruding; but we are -making preparations.... I daresay that to-morrow we shall be able to----' - -'Oh, I beg pardon, Miss Watson; let me assure you ... I am sorry if----' - -Taking a little handkerchief out of her black dress, Emily covered her face -in her thin, tiny hands. She sobbed aloud, and ran out of the room. Hubert -turned to Mrs. Bentley, his face full of consternation. - -'I am very sorry, but she did not give me time to speak. Will you go and -fetch her, Mrs. Bentley? I want to tell her I hope she will never leave -Ashwood. ... I believe she thinks that I came down here to ask her to leave -as soon as possible. It is really quite awful that she should think such a -thing.' - -'She is an exceedingly sensitive girl, and is now a little overwrought. The -events of the last month have proved too much for her.' - -'Mr. Grandly informed me that it was Mr. Burnett's intention to add a -codicil to his will, leaving Miss Watson three hundred a year. This money I -am prepared to give her, and I'm quite sure she is welcome to stay here as -long as she pleases. Indeed, she will do me a great favour by remaining. -Please go and tell her. I cannot bear to see a girl cry; to hear her sob -like that is quite terrible.' - -'You will be able to tell her yourself during the course of the evening. I -think it will come better from you.' - -'After what has happened, it will be very difficult for me to meet her -until she is informed that she is mistaken. I charged Mr. Grandly to -explain everything in his letter. Apparently he omitted to do so.' - -'He only said you wanted to see Emily on a matter of business. Of course we -did not expect such generosity.' - -They were standing quite close together, and suddenly Hubert became -conscious of Mrs. Bentley's beauty. Her blue eyes were at that moment full -of tender admiration for the instinctive generosity which Hubert so -unwittingly exhibited, and her eyes told what was passing in her soul. -Suddenly they both seemed to understand each other better, and, playing -with the bracelet on her arm, she said-- - -'You do not know Emily; she is strangely sensitive. But I will go and try -to persuade her to return.... Although only distantly related, you are -cousins, after all--are you not?' - -'Yes, we are cousins, but the relationship is remote. Tell her everything; -beg of her to come down-stairs.' - -Hubert imagined Emily's little black figure thrown upon her bed, sobbing -convulsively. He was very much agitated, and looked about the room, at -first hardly seeing it. At last its novelty drew his thoughts from his -cousin's tears, and he wondered what was the history of the house. 'The old -man,' he thought, 'bought it all, furniture and ancestors, from some ruined -landowner, and attempted very few alterations--that's clear.' Then he -reproached himself. 'How could I have been so stupid? I did not know what I -was saying. I was so horribly nervous. Those strange eyes of hers quite -upset me. I do hope Mrs. Bentley will tell her that I wish to act -generously, that I am prepared to do everything in my power to make her -happy. Poor little thing! She looks as if she had never been happy.' Again -the room drew Hubert's thoughts away from his cousin. It was still lit with -the faint perfumed glow of the sunset. The paint of the old decorations was -cracked and faded. A man in a plum-coloured coat with gold facings fixed -his eyes upon him, and the tall lady in blue satin had no doubt played -there in short clothes. He walked up and down, he turned over the music on -the piano, and, hearing a step, looked round. It was only the servant -coming to tell him that his room was ready. - -He dressed for dinner, hoping to find the two ladies in the drawing-room, -and it was a disappointment to find only Mrs. Bentley there. - -'I have told Emily everything you said. She is very grateful, and begs of -me to thank you for your kind intentions. But I am afraid you must excuse -her absence from dinner. I really don't think she is in a fit state to come -down; she couldn't possibly take part in the conversation.' - -'But why? I hope she isn't ill? Had we better send for the doctor?' - -'Oh no; she'll be all right in the morning. She has been crying. She -suffers from depression of spirits. She is, I assure you, all right,' said -Mrs. Bentley, replying to Hubert's alarmed and questioning face. 'I assure -you there is no need for you to reproach yourself. Dinner is ready.' She -took his arm, and they went into the dining-room. - -No further mention was made of Mr. Burnett, of money matters, or of the -young lady up-stairs; and with considerable tact Mrs. Bentley introduced -the subject of literature, alluding gracefully to Hubert's position as a -dramatist. - -'Your play, _Divorce_, is now running at the Queen's Theatre?' - -No; I'm sorry to say it was taken out of the bills last Saturday. Saturday -night was the last performance.' - -'That was not a long run. And the papers spoke so favourably of it.' - -'It is a play that only appeals to the few.' And, encouraged by Mrs. -Bentley's manner, Hubert told her how happy endings and comic love-scenes -were essential to secure a popular success. - -'I am afraid you will think me very stupid, but I do not quite understand.' - -In a quiet, unobtrusive way Hubert was a graceful talker, and he knew how -to adapt his theme, and bring it within the circle of the sympathies of his -listeners. There was some similarity of temperament between himself and -Mrs. Bentley; they were both quiet, fair, meditative Saxons. She lent her -whole mind to the conversation, interested in the account that the young -man gave of his dramatic aspirations. - -From the dining-room window looking over the park the long road wound -through the vaporous country. The town stood in the middle distance, its -colour blotted out, and its smoke hardly distinguishable. In the room a -yellow dress turned grey, and the gold of a bracelet grew darker, and the -pink of delicate finger-nails was no longer visible. But the pensive dusk -of the dining-room, which blackened the claret in the decanters, leaving -only the faintest ruby glow in the glass which Hubert raised to his lips, -suited the tenor of the conversation, which had wandered from the dramatic -to the social side of the question. What did he think of divorce? She -sighed, and he wondered what her story might be. - -They passed out of the dining-room, and stood on the gravel, watching the -night gathering in the open country. In the light of the moon, which had -just risen above the woods, the white road grew whiter, the town was -faintly seen in the tide of blue vapour, which here and there allowed a -field to appear. In the foreground a great silver fir, spiky and solitary, -rose up in the blue night. Beyond it was seen a corner of the ornamental -bridge. The island and its shadow were one black mass rising from the park -up to the level of the moon, which, a little to the right, between the town -and the island, lay reflected in a narrow strip of water. Farther away some -reeds were visible in the illusive light, and the meditative chatter of -dozing ducks stirred the silence which wrapped the country like a cloak. - -Hubert and Mrs. Bentley stood looking at the landscape. The fragrance of -his cigar, the presence of the woman, the tenderness of the hour, combined -to make him strangely happy; his past life seemed to him like a harsh, -cruel pain that had suddenly ceased. More than he had ever desired seemed -to be fulfilled; the reality exceeded the dream. What greater happiness -than to live here, and with this woman! His thoughts paused, for he had -forgotten the girl up-stairs. She was not happy; but he would make her -happy--of that he was quite certain. At that moment Mrs. Bentley said-- - -'I hope you like your home. Is not the prospect a lovely one?' - -'Yes; but I was thinking at that moment of Emily. I suppose I must accustom -myself to call her by her Christian name. She is my cousin, and we are -going to live together. But, by the way, she cannot stay here alone. I -hope--I may trust that you will remain with her?' - -Mrs. Bentley turned her face towards him; he noticed the look of pleasure -that had passed into it. - -'Thank you; it is very good of you. I shall be glad to remain with Emily as -long as she cares for my society. It is needless to say I shall do my best -to deserve your approval.' - -[Illustration: "They dined at the Café Royal."] - -Her voice fell, and he heard her sigh, and in his happiness it seemed to -him to be a pity that he should find unhappiness in others. - -They went into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bentley asked him if he liked music, -and she went to the piano and sang some Scotch songs very sweetly. Then she -took a book from the table and bade him good-night. She was sure that he -would excuse her. She must go and see after Emily. - -When the door closed, the woman who had just left him seemed like some one -he had seen in a dream; and still more shadowy and illusive did the girl -seem--that pale and plaintive beauty, looking like a pastel, who had so -troubled him with her enigmatic eyes! And the lodging-house that he had -left only a few hours ago! and Rose. - -On Sunday he had taken Rose out to dinner. They dined at the Café-Royal. He -had tried to talk to her about Hamilton Brown's new drama, which they had -just heard would follow _Divorce_; but he was unable to detach his thoughts -from Ashwood and the ladies he was going to visit to-morrow evening. Hubert -and Rose had felt like two school-fellows, one of whom is leaving school; -the link that had bound them had snapped; henceforth their ways lay -separate; and they were sad at parting just as school-friends are sad. - -'You are not rich; you offered to lend me money once. I want to lend you -some now.' - -'Oh yes; five shillings, wasn't it?' - -'It doesn't matter what the sum was--we were both very poor then----' - -'And I'm still poorer now.' - -'All the more reason why you should allow me to help you.... Allow me to -write you a cheque for a hundred pounds. I assure you I can afford it.' - -'I think I had better not.... I have some things I can sell.' - -'But you must not sell your things. Indeed, you must allow me----' - -'I think I'd rather not. I shall be all right--that is to say, if Ford -engages me for Brown's new piece; and I think he will.' - -'But if he doesn't?' - -'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?' - -'You mustn't abuse my picture. I used to spend hours wondering if those -horsemen galloping so madly through the wood were robbers, and if they had -robbed the castle shown between the trees. I used to wonder if they would -succeed in escaping. They wouldn't gallop their horses like that unless -they were being pursued.... Can I have the picture?' - -'Of course you can. Is that--that is not all you are going to ask me for?' - -'I did think of asking you for a few more things. Do you mind?' - -'No, not the least. The more you ask for, the more I shall be pleased.' - -'Then you must come down-stairs.' - -They went down to the next landing. Emily stopped before a bed-room, and, -looking at Hubert shyly and interrogatively, she said-- - -'This is my room. I don't know if it is in a fit state to show you. I'm not -a very tidy girl. I'll look first.' - -'Yes; it will do,' she said, drawing back. 'You can look in. I want you to -give me that wardrobe. It isn't a very handsome one, but I've used it ever -since I was a little girl; it has a hollow top, and I used to hide things -there. Do you think you can spare it?' - -'Yes; I think I can,' he said, smiling. - -Then she led him up-stairs through the old lumber rooms, picking out here -and there some generally broken and always worthless piece of furniture, -pleading for it timidly, and strangely delighted when he nodded, granting -her every request. She asked him to pull out what she had chosen from the -_débris_, and a curious collection they made in the passage--dim and -worm-eaten pictures, small book-cases, broken vases which she proposed -mending. - -Hubert wiped the dust from his hands and coat-sleeves. - -'What a lot of things you have given me! Now we shall be able to get on -nicely with our furnishing.' - -'What furnishing?' - -'The furnishing of the little house in London where Julia and I are going -to live. You said you intended to add a hundred a year to the three hundred -a year which Mr. Burnett should have left me; I don't see why you should do -such a thing, but if you do we shall have four hundred a year to live upon. -Julia says that we shall then be able to afford to give fifty pounds a year -for a house. We can get a very nice little house, she says, for that--of -course, in one of the suburbs. The great expense will be the furnishing; we -are going to do it on the hire system. I daresay one can get very nice -things in that way, but I do want to make the place look a little like -Ashwood; that is why I'm asking you for these things. I was always fond of -playing in these old lumber-rooms, and these dim old pictures, which I -don't think any one knows anything of except myself, will remind me of -Ashwood. They will look very well, indeed, hanging round our little -dining-room. You are sure you don't want them, do you?' - -'No; I won't want them. I'm only too pleased to be able to give them to -you.' - -'You are very good, indeed you are. Look at these old haymakers; I never -saw but one little corner of this picture before; it was stowed away behind -a lot of lumber, and I hadn't the strength to pull it out.... I'm afraid -you've got yourself rather dusty.' - -'Oh no; it will brush off.' - -'I shall hang this picture over the fireplace; it will look very well -there. I daresay you don't see anything in it, but I'd sooner have these -pictures than those down-stairs. I love the picture of the windmill on the -first landing----' - -'Then why not have it? I'll have it taken down at once.' - -'No; I could not think of taking it. How would the landing look without it? -I should miss it dreadfully when I came here--for I daresay you will ask us -to visit you occasionally, when you are lonely, won't you?' - -'My dear Emily, whenever you like, I hope you will come here.' - -'And you will come and stay with us in London? Your room will be always -ready; I'll look after that. We shall feel very offended, indeed, if you -ever think of going to an hotel. Of course, you mustn't expect much; we -shall only be able to keep one servant, but we shall try to make you -comfortable, and, when you come, you'll take me to the theatres, to see one -of your own plays.' - -'If my play's being played, certainly. But would it be right for me to pay -you visits in London?' - -'They would be very wicked people indeed who saw anything wrong in it; you -are my cousin. But why do you say such things? You destroy all my pleasure, -and I was so happy just now.' - -'I'm afraid, Emily, your happiness hangs on a very slender thread.' - -She looked at him inquiringly, but feeling that it would be unwise to -attempt an explanation, he said in a different tone-- - -'But, Emily, if you love Ashwood so well, why do you go away?' - -'Why do I go away? We have been here now some time.... I can't live here -always.' - -'Why not? Why not let things go on just as they are?' - -'And live here with you, I and Julia?' - -'Yes; why not?' - -'We should bore you; you want to write your plays, you'd get tired of me.' - -'Your being here would not prevent my writing my plays. I have been -thinking all the while of asking you to remain, but was afraid you would -not care to live here.' - -'Not care to live here! But you'll get tired of us; we might quarrel.' - -'No; we shall never quarrel. You will be doing me a great favour by -remaining. Just fancy living alone in this great house, not a soul to speak -to all day! I'm sure I should end by going out and hanging myself on one of -those trees.' - -'You wouldn't do that, would you?' - -Hubert laughed. 'You and Mrs. Bentley will be doing me a great favour by -remaining. If you go away I shall be robbed right and left, the gardens -will go to rack and ruin, and when you come down here you won't know the -place, and then, perhaps, we shall quarrel.' - -'I shouldn't like Ashwood to go to rack and ruin--and my poor flowers! And -I'm sure you'd forget to feed the swans. If you did that, I could not -forgive you.' - -'Well, let these grave considerations decide you to remain.' - -'Are you really serious?' - -'I never was more serious in my life.' - -'Well then, may I run and tell Julia?' - -'Certainly, and I'll--no, I won't. I'll look up the housemaids and tell -them to restore this interesting collection of antiquities to their -original dust.' - - - - -XII - - -He was, perhaps, a little too conscious of his happiness; and he feared to -do anything that would endanger the pleasure of his present life. It seemed -to him like a costly thing which might slip from his hand or be broken; and -day by day he appreciated more and more the delicate comfort of this -well-ordered house--its brightness, its ample rooms, the charm of space -within and without, the health of regular and wholesome meals, the presence -of these two women, whose first desire was to minister to his least wish or -caprice. These, the first spoilings he had received, combined to render him -singularly happy. Bohemianism, he often thought, had been forced upon -him--it was not natural to him, and though spiritual belief was dead, he -experienced in church a resurrection of influences which misfortune had -hypnotised, but which were stirring again into life. He was conscious again -of this revival of his early life in the evenings when Mrs. Bentley went to -the piano; and when playing a game of chess or draughts, remembrances of -the old Shropshire rectory came back, sudden, distinct, and sweet. In these -days the disease of fame and artistic achievement only sang monotonously, -plaintively, like the wind in the valleys where the wind never wholly -rests. - -Sometimes, when moved by the novel he was reading, he would discuss its -merits and demerits with the two women who sat by him in the quiet of the -dim drawing-room, their work on their knees, thinking of him. In the -excitement of criticism his thoughts wandered to his own work, and the -women's eyes filled with reveries, and their hands folded languidly over -their knees. He spoke without emphasis, his words seeming to drop from the -thick obsession of his dream. At ten the ladies gathered up their work, -bade him good-night; and nightly these good-nights grew tenderer, and -nightly they went up-stairs more deeply penetrated with a sense of their -happiness. But at heart he was a man's man. He hardly perceived life from a -woman's point of view; and in the long evenings which he spent with these -women he sometimes had to force himself to appear interested in their -conversation. He was as far removed from one as from the other. Emily's -wilfulness puzzled him, and he did not seem to have anything further to -talk about to Mrs. Bentley. - -He missed the bachelor evenings of former days--the whisky and water, the -pipes, and the literary discussion; and as the days went by he began to -think of London; his thoughts turned affectionately towards the friends he -had not seen for so long, and at the end of July he announced his intention -of running up to town for a few days. So one morning breakfast was hurried -through; Emily was sure there was plenty of time; Hubert looked at the -clock and said he must be off; Julia ran after him with parcels which he -had forgotten; farewell signs were waved; the dog-cart passed out of sight, -and, after lingering a moment, the women returned to the drawing-room -thoughtfully. - -'I wonder if he'll catch the train,' said Emily, without taking her face -from the window. - -'I hope so; it will be very tiresome for him if he has to come back. There -isn't another train before three o'clock.' - -'If he missed this train he wouldn't go until to-morrow morning.... I -wonder how long he'll stay away. Supposing something happened, and he never -came back!' Emily turned round and looked at Julia in dreamy wonderment. - -'Not come back at all? What nonsense you are talking, Emily! He won't be -away more than a fortnight or three weeks.' - -'Three weeks! that seems a very long while. How shall we get through our -evenings?' - -Emily had again turned towards the window. Julia did not trouble to reply. -She smiled a little, as she paused on the threshold, for she remembered -that no more than a few weeks ago Emily had addressed to her passionate -speeches declaring her to be her only friend, and that they would like to -live together, content in each other's companionship, always ignoring the -rest of the world. Although she had not mistaken these speeches for -anything more than the nervous passion of a moment, the suddenness of the -recantation surprised her a little. Three or four days after, the girl was -in a different mood, and when they came into the drawing-room after dinner -she threw her arms about Julia's neck, saying, 'Isn't this like old times? -Here we are, living all alone together, and I'm not boring myself a bit. I -never shall have another friend like you, Julia.' - -'But you'll be very glad when Hubert comes back.' - -'There's no harm in that, is there? I should be very ungrateful if I -wasn't. Think how good he has been to us.... I'm afraid you don't like him, -Julia.' - -'Oh, yes, I do, Emily.' - -'Not so much as I do.' And raising herself--she was sitting on Julia's -knees--Emily looked at Julia. - -'Perhaps not,' Julia replied, smiling; 'but then I never hated him as much -as you did.' - -A cloud came over Emily's face. 'I did hate him, didn't I? You remember -that first evening? You remember when you came up-stairs and found me -trembling in the passage--I was afraid to go to bed. ... I begged you to -allow me to sleep with you. You remember how we listened for his footstep -in the passage, as he went up to bed, and how I clung to you? Then the -dreams of that night. I never told you what my dreams were, but you -remember how I woke up with a cry, and you asked me what was the matter?' - -'Yes, I remember.' - -'I dreamt I was with him in a garden, and was trying to get away; but he -held me by a single hair, and the hair would not break. How absurd dreams -are! And the garden was full of flowers, but every time I tried to gather -them, he pulled me back by that single hair. I don't remember any more, -only something about running wildly away from him, and losing myself in a -dark forest, and there the ground was soft like a bog, and it seemed as if -I were going to be swallowed up every moment. It was a terrible sensation. -All of a sudden I woke with a cry. The room was grey with dawn, and you -said: "Emily dear, what have you been dreaming, to cry out like that?" I -was too tired and frightened to tell you much about my dream, and next -morning I had forgotten it. I did not remember it for a long time after, -but all the same some of it came true. Don't you remember how I met Hubert -next morning on the lawn? We went into the garden and spent the best part -of the morning walking about the lake.... I don't know if I told you--I ran -away when I heard him coming, and should have got away had it not been for -this tiresome dog. He called after me, using my Christian name. I was so -angry I think I hated him then more than ever. We walked a little way, and -the next thing I remember was thinking how nice he was. I don't know how it -all happened. Now I think of it, it seems like magic. It was the day that -my old donkey ran away with the mowing machine and broke the flower-vase, -the dear old thing; we had a long talk about "Jack." And then I took Hubert -into the garden and showed him the flowers. I don't think he cares much -about flowers; he pretended, but I could see it was only to please me. Then -I knew that he liked me, for when I told him I was going to feed the swans, -he said he loved swans and begged to be allowed to come too. I don't think -a man would say that if he didn't like you, do you?' - -Emily's mind seemed to contain nothing but memories of Hubert. What he had -said on this occasion, how he had looked at her on another. The -conversation paused and Emily sunned herself in the enchantment of -recollection, until at last breaking forth again, she said-- - -'Have you noticed how Ethel Eastwick goes after him? And the odd part of it -is, that she can't see that he dislikes her. He thinks nothing of her -singing; he remained talking to me in the conservatory the whole time. I -asked him to come into the drawing-room, but he pretended to misunderstand -me, and asked me if I felt a draught. He said, "Let me get you a shawl." I -said, "I assure you, Hubert, I don't feel any draught." But he would not -believe me, and said he could not allow me to sit there without something -on my shoulders. I begged of him not to move, for I knew that Ethel would -never forgive me if I interrupted her singing; but he said he could get me -a wrap without interrupting any one. He opened the conservatory door, ran -across the lawn round to the front door, and came back with--what do you -think? With two wraps instead of one; one was mine, and the other belonged -to--I don't know who it belonged to. So I said, "Oh, what ever shall we do? -I cannot let you go back again. If any one was to come in and find me -alone, what ever would they think!" Hubert said, "Will you come with me? A -walk in the garden will be pleasanter than sitting in the conservatory." I -didn't like going at first, but I thought there couldn't be much harm.' - -It seemed to Emily very terrible and very wonderful, and she experienced -throughout her numbed sense a strange, thrilling pain, akin to joy, and she -sat, her little fragile form lost in the arm-chair, her great eyes fixed in -ecstasy, seeing still the dark garden with the great star risen like a -phantom above the trees. That evening had been to her a wonder and an -enchantment, and her pausing thoughts dwelt on the moment when the distant -sound of a bell reached their ears, and the bell came nearer, clanging -fiercely in the sonorous garden. Then they saw a light--some one had come -for them with a lantern--a joke, a suitable pleasantry, and amid joyous -laughter, watching the setting moon, they had gone back to the tiled house, -where dancers still passed the white-curtained windows. Hubert had sat by -her at supper, serving her with meat and drink. In the sway of memory she -trembled and started, looking in the great arm-chair like a little bird -that the moon keeps awake in its soft nest. She no longer wished to tell -Julia of that night in the garden; her sensation of it lay far beyond -words; it was her secret, and it shone through her dreamy youth even as the -star had shone through the heavens that night. Suddenly she said-- - -'I wonder what Hubert is doing in London? I wonder where he is now?' - -'Now? It is just nine. I suppose he's in some theatre.' - -'I suppose he goes a great deal to the theatre. I wonder who he goes with. -He has lots of friends in London--actresses, I suppose; he knows them who -play in his plays. He dines at his club----' - -'Or at a restaurant.' - -'I wonder what a restaurant is like; ladies dine at restaurants, don't -they?' - -As Julia was about to make reply, the servant brought her a letter. She -opened the envelope, and took out a long, closely-written letter; she -turned it over to see the signature, and then looking toward Emily, she -said, with a pleasant smile-- - -'Now I shall be able to answer your questions better; this letter is from -Mr. Price.' - -'Oh, what does he say? Read it.' - -'Wait a moment, let me glance through it first; it is very difficult to -read.' A few moments after, Julia said, 'There's not much that would -interest you in the letter, Emily; it is all about his play. He says he -would have written before if he had not been so busy looking out for a -theatre, and engaging actors and actresses. He hopes to start rehearsing -next week. - -"I say I hope, because there are still some parts of the play which do not -satisfy me, particularly the third act. I intend to work steadily on the -play till, next Thursday, five or six hours every day; I am in perfect -health and spirits, and ought to be able to get the thing right. Should I -fail to satisfy myself, or should any further faults appear when we begin -to rehearse the piece, I shall dismiss my people, pack up my traps, and -return to Ashwood. There I shall have quiet; here, people are continually -knocking at my door, and I cannot deny my friends the pleasure of seeing -me, if that is a pleasure. But at Ashwood, as I say, I shall be sure of -quiet, and can easily finish the play this autumn, and February is a better -time than September to produce a play."' - -'Then he goes on,' said Julia, 'to explain the alterations he contemplates -making. There's no use reading you all that.' - -'I suppose you think I should not understand.' - -'My dear Emily, if you want to read the letter, there it is.' - -'I don't want to see your letter.' - -'What do you mean, Emily?' - -'Nothing, only I think it rather strange that he didn't write to me.' - -Some days after, Emily took up the book that Julia had laid down. -'"Shakespeare's Plays." I suppose you are reading them so that you'll be -able to talk to him better.' - -'I never thought of such a thing, Emily.' At the end of a long silence -Emily said-- - -'Do you think clever men like clever women?' - -'I don't know. Some say they do, some say they don't. I believe that really -clever men, men of genius, don't.' - -'I wonder if Hubert is a man of genius. What do you think?' - -'I really am not capable of expressing an opinion on the matter.' - -Another week passed away, and Emily began to assume an air of languor and -timid yearning. One day she said-- - -'I wonder he doesn't write. He hasn't answered my letter yet. Has he -answered yours?' - -'He has not written to me again. He hasn't time for letter-writing. He is -working night and day at his play.' - -'I suppose he'd never think of coming down by the morning train. He'd be -sure to come by the five o'clock.' - -'He won't come without writing. He'd be sure to write for the dog-cart.' - -'I suppose so. There's no use in looking out for him.' - -But, notwithstanding her certitude on the point, Emily could not help -choosing five o'clock as the time for a walk, and Julia noticed that the -girl's feet seemed to turn instinctively towards the lodge. Often she would -leave the flowers she was tending on the terrace, and stand looking through -the dim, sun-smitten landscape toward the red-brown spot, which was -Southwater, in the middle of the long plain. - - - - -XIII - - -Hubert felt called upon to entertain his friends, and one evening they all -sat dining at Hurlingham in the long room. The conversation, as usual, had -been about books and pictures. - -It was the moment when strings of lanterns were hoisted from tree to tree. -In front of a large space of sky the coloured globes were crude and -trivial; but in the shadows of the trees by the river, where the mist rose -into the branches, they had begun to awaken the first impression of -melancholy and the sadness of _fête_. It was the moment when the great -trees hung heavy and motionless, strangely green and solemn beneath a -slate-coloured sky; and the plaintive waltz cried on Hungarian -fiddle-strings, till it seemed the soul of this feminine evening. The -fashionable crowd had moved out upon the lawn; the white dresses were -phantom blue, and the men's coats faded into obscure masses, darkening the -gathering shadows. It was the moment when voices soften, and every heart, -overpowered with yearning, is impelled to tell of grief and disillusion; -and every moment the wail of the fiddles grew more unbearable, tearing the -heart to its very depths. - -Author and actor-manager walked up the lawn puffing at their cigars. The -others sat watching, knowing that the opportunity had come for criticism of -their friend. - -'He does not change much,' said Harding. 'Circumstances haven't affected -him. A year ago he lived in a garret re-writing his play _Divorce_. He now -rewrites _Divorce_ in a handsome house in Sussex.' - -'I thought he had finished his play,' said Thompson. 'I heard that he was -going to take a theatre and produce it himself.' - -'But did you not hear him say at dinner that he was re-writing as he -rehearsed? I met one of the actors yesterday. He doesn't know what to make -of it. He gets a new part every week to learn.' - -'Do you think he'll ever produce it?' - -'I doubt it. At the last moment he'll find that the third act doesn't -satisfy him, and will postpone the production till the spring.' - -'What do you think of his work?' - -'Very intelligent, but a little insipid--like himself. Look at him. _Il est -bien l'homme de ses ouvres_. There is something dry about him, and his -writings are like himself--hard, dry and wanting in personal passion.' - -'Yet he talks charmingly, with vivacity and intelligence, and he is so full -of appreciation of Shakespeare, Goethe, and such genuine love for -antiquity.' - -'I've heard him talk Shakespeare, Goethe, and Ibsen,' said Harding, 'but I -never heard him say anything new, anything personal. It seems to me that -you mistake quotation for perception. He assimilates, but he originates -nothing. He has read a great deal; he is covered with literature like a -rock with moss and lichen. He's appreciative, I will say that for him. He -would make a capital editor, or a tutor, or a don, an Oxford don. He would -be perfectly happy as a don; he could read up the German critics and -expound Sophocles. He would be perfectly happy as a don. As it is, he is -perfectly miserable.' - -'There was a fellow who had a studio over mine,' said Thompson. 'He had -been in the army and used to paint a bit. The academy by chance hung a -portrait, so he left the army and turned portrait-painter. One day he saw a -picture by Velasquez, and he understood how horrid were the red things he -used to send to the academy. He used to come down to see me; he used to -say, "I wish I had never seen a picture, by Gad, it is driving me out of my -mind." Poor chap, I wanted him to go back to the army. I said, Why paint? -no one forces you to; it makes you miserable; don't do so any more. When -you have anything to say, art is a joy; when you haven't, it is a curse to -yourself and to others.' - -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 génie raté_,' 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.' - -[Illustration: "Sometimes, in an exciting passage, the hands were -clasped."] - -'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. - -In the drawing-room he insisted on being nursed; and alone, amid the faded -furniture, watched over by the old portraits, her pale face fixed and her -pale hands clasping her beloved dog, she sat thinking, brooding over the -unhappiness, the incurable unhappiness, of her little life. She was -absorbed in self, and did not rail against Hubert, or even Julia. Their -personalities had somehow dropped out of her mind, and merely represented -forces against which she found herself unable any longer to contend. Nor -was she surprised at what had happened. There had always been in her some -prescience of her fate. She and unhappiness had always seemed so -inseparable, that she had never found it difficult to believe that this -last misfortune would befall her. She had thought it over, and had decided -that it would be unendurable to live any longer, and had borne many a -terrible insomnia so that she might collect sufficient chloral to take her -out of her misery; and now, as she sat thinking, she remembered that she -had never, never been happy. Oh! the miserable evenings she used to spend, -when a child, between her father and mother, who could not agree--why, she -never understood. But she used to have to listen to her mother addressing -insulting speeches to her father in a calm, even voice that nothing could -alter; and, though both were dead and years divided her from that time, the -memory survived, and she could see it all again--that room, the very paper -on the wall, and her father being gradually worked up into a frenzy. - -When she was left an orphan, Mr. Burnett had adopted her, and she -remembered the joy of coming to Ashwood. She had thought to find happiness -there; but there, as at home, fate had gone against her, and she was hardly -eighteen when Mr. Burnett had asked her to marry him. She had loved that -old man, but he had not loved her; for when she had refused to marry him he -had broken all his promises and left her penniless, careless of what might -become of her. Then she had given her whole heart to Julia, and Julia, too, -had deceived her. And had she not loved Hubert?--no one would ever know how -much; she did not know herself,--and had he not lied to her? Oh, it was -very cruel to deceive a poor little girl in this heartless way! There was -no heart in the world, that was it--and she was all heart; and her heart -had been trampled on ever since she could remember. And when they came back -they would revenge themselves upon her--insult her with their happiness; -perhaps insist on sending her away. - -Dandy drowsed on her lap. The servant brought in the tea, and when he -returned to the kitchen he said he had never seen any one look so -ghost-like as Miss Emily. The clock ticked loudly in the silence of the old -room, the hands moving slowly towards ten. She waited for the hour to -strike; it was then that she usually went to bed. Her thoughts moved as in -a nightmare; and paramount in this chaotic mass of sensation was an acute -sense of the deception that had been practised on her; with the -consciousness, now firm and unalterable, that it had become impossible for -her to live. When the clock struck she got up from her chair, and the -movement seemed to react on her brain; her thoughts unclouded, and she went -up-stairs thinking clearly of her love of this old house. The old gentleman -in the red coat, his hand on his sword, looked on her benignly; and the -lady playing the spinet smiled as sweetly as was her wont. Emily held up -the candle to the picture of the windmill. She had always loved that -picture, and the sad thought came that she should never see it again. -Dandy, who had galloped up-stairs, stood looking through the banisters, -wagging his tail. - -The moment she got into her room she wrote the following note: 'I have -taken an overdose of chloral. My life was too miserable to be borne any -longer. I forgive those who have caused my unhappiness, and I hope they -will forgive me any unhappiness I have caused them.' They were nothing to -her now; they were beyond her hate, and the only pang she felt was parting -with her beloved Dandy. There he stood looking at her, standing on the edge -of the bed, waiting for her to cover him up and put him to sleep in his own -corner. 'Yes, Dandy, in a moment, dear--have patience.' She looked round -the little room, and, remembering all that she had suffered there, thought -that the walls must be saturated with grief, like a sponge. - -It was a common thing at that time for her to stand before the glass and -address such words as these to herself: 'My poor girl, how I pity you, how -I pity you!' And now, looking at herself very sadly, she said, 'My poor -girl, I shall never pity you any more!' Having hung up her dress, she -fetched a chair and took various doses of chloral out of the hollow top of -her wardrobe, where she had hidden things all her life--sweets, novels, -fireworks. They more than half-filled the tumbler; and, looking at the -sticky, white liquid, she thought with repugnance of drinking so much of -it. But, wanting to make quite sure of death, she resolved to take it all, -and she undressed quickly. She was very cold when she got into bed. Then a -thought struck her, and she got out of bed to add a postscript to her -letter. 'I have only one request to make. I hope Dandy will always be taken -care of.' Surprised that she had not wrapped him up and told him he was to -go to sleep, the dog stood on the edge of the bed, watching her so -earnestly that she wondered if he knew what she was going to do. 'No, you -don't know, dear--do you? If you did, you wouldn't let me do it; you'd bark -the house down, I know you would, my own darling.' Clasping him to her -breast, she smothered him with kisses, then put him away in his corner, -covering him over for the night. - -She felt neither grief nor fear. Through much suffering, thought and -sensation were, to a great extent, dead in her; and, in a sort of emotive -numbness, she laid her candlestick in its usual place on the chair by her -bedside; and, sitting up in bed, her night-dress carefully buttoned, -holding the tumbler half-filled with chloral, she tried to take a -dispassionate survey of her life. She thought of what she had endured, and -what she would have to endure if she did not take it. Then she felt she -must go, and without hesitation drank off the chloral. She placed the -tumbler by the candlestick, and lay down, remembering vaguely that a long -time ago she had decided that suicide was not wrong in itself. The last -thing she remembered was the clock striking eleven. - -For half an hour she slept like stone. Then her eyes opened, and they told -of sickness now in motion within her. And, strangely enough, through the -overpowering nausea rising from her stomach to her brain, the thought that -she was not going to die appeared perfectly clear, and with it a sense of -disappointment; she would have to begin it all over again. It was with -great difficulty that she struck a match and lighted a candle. It seemed -impossible to get up. At last she managed to slip her legs out of bed, and -found she could stand, and through the various assaults of retching she -thought of the letter: it must be destroyed; and, leaning in the corner -against the wall and the wardrobe, she tried to recover herself. A dull, -deep sleep was pressing on her brain, and she thought she would never be -able to cross the room to where the letter was. Dandy looked out of his -rug; she caught sight of his bright eyes. - -On cold and shaky feet she attempted to make her way towards the letter; -but the room heaved up at her, and, fearing she should fall, and knowing if -she did that she would not be able to regain her feet, she clung to the -toilette-table. She must destroy that letter: if it were found, they would -watch her; and, however impossible her life might become, she would not be -able to escape from it. This consideration gave her strength for a final -effort. She tore the letter into very small pieces, and then, clinging to a -chair, strove to grasp the rail of the bed; but the bed rolled worse than -any ship. Making a supreme effort, she got in; and then, neither dreams nor -waking thoughts, but oblivion complete. Hours and hours passed, and when -she opened her eyes her maid stood over the bed, looking at her. - -'Oh, miss, you looked so tired and ill that I didn't wake you. You do seem -poorly, miss. It is nearly two o'clock. Should you like to sleep a little -longer, or shall I bring you up some breakfast?' - -'No, no, no, thank you. I couldn't touch anything. I'm feeling wretched; -but I'll get up.' - -The maid tried to dissuade her; but Emily got out of bed, and allowed -herself to be dressed. She was very weak--so weak that she could hardly -stand up at the washstand; and the maid had to sponge her face and neck. -But when she had drunk a cup of tea and eaten a little piece of toast, she -said she felt better, and was able to walk into the drawing-room. She -thought no more of death, nor of her troubles; thought drowned in her; and -in a passive, torpid state she sat looking into the fire till dinner-time, -hardly caring to bestow a casual caress on Dandy, who seemed conscious of -his mistress's neglect, for, in his sly, coaxing way, he sometimes came and -rubbed himself against her feet. She went into the dining-room, and the -servant was glad to see that she finished her soup, and, though she hardly -tasted it, she finished a wing of a chicken, and also the glass of wine -which the man pressed upon her. Half an hour after, when he brought out the -tea, he found her sitting on her habitual chair nursing her dog, and -staring into the fire so drearily that her look frightened him, and he -hesitated before he gave her the letter which had just come up from the -town; but it was marked 'Immediate.' - -When he left the room she opened it. It was from Mrs. Bentley:-- - -'Dearest Emily,--I know that Hubert told you that he was not going to marry -me. He thought he was not, for I had refused to marry him; but a short time -after we met in the park quite accidentally, and--well, fate took the -matter out of our hands, and we are to be married to-morrow. Hubert insists -on going to Italy, and I believe we shall remain there two months. We have -made arrangements for your aunt to live with you until we come back; and -when we do come back, I hope all the little unpleasantnesses which have -marred our friendship for this last month or two will be forgotten. So far -as I am concerned, nothing shall be left undone to make you happy. Your -will shall be law at Ashwood so long as I am there. If you would like to -join us in Italy, you have only to say the word. We shall be delighted to -have you.' - -Emily could read no more. 'Join them in Italy!' She dashed the letter into -the fire, and an intense hatred of them both pierced her heart and brain. -It was the kiss of Judas. Oh, those hateful, lying words! To live here with -her aunt until they came back, to wait here quietly until she returned in -triumph with him--him who had been all the world to her. Oh no; that was -not possible. Death, death--escape she must. But how? She had no more -chloral. Suddenly she thought of the lake. 'Yes, yes; the lake, the lake!' -And then a keen, swift, passionate longing for death, such as she had not -felt at all the night before, came upon her. There was the knowledge too -that by killing herself she would revenge herself on those who had killed -her. She was just conscious that her suicide would have this effect, but -hardly a trace of such intention appeared in the letter she wrote; it was -as melancholy and as brief as the letter she had torn up, and ended, like -it, with a request that Dandy should be well looked after. She had only -just directed the envelope when she heard the servant coming to take away -the tea-things. She concealed the letter; and when his steps died away in -the corridor and the house-door closed, she knew she could slip out -unobserved. Instinctively she thought of her hat and jacket, and, without a -shudder, remembered she would not need them. She sped down the pathway -through the shadow of the firs. - -It was one of those warm nights of winter when a sulphur-coloured sky hangs -like a blanket behind the wet, dishevelled woods; and, though there was -neither moon nor star, the night was strangely clear, and the shadow of the -bridge was distinct in the water. When she approached the brink the swans -moved slowly away. They reminded her of the cold; but the black obsession -of death was upon her; and, hastening her steps, she threw herself forward. -She fell into shallow water and regained her feet, and for a moment it -seemed uncertain if she would wade to the bank or fling herself into a -deeper place. Suddenly she sank, the water rising to her shoulders. She was -lifted off her feet. A faint struggle, a faint cry, and then -nothing--nothing but the whiteness of the swans moving through the sultry -night slowly towards the island. - - - - -XX - - -Its rich, inanimate air proclaimed the room to be an expensive bedroom in a -first-class London hotel. Interest in the newly-married couple, who were to -occupy the room, prompted the servants to see that nothing was forgotten; -and as they lingered steps were heard in the passage, and Hubert and Julia -entered. The maid-servants stood aside to let them pass, and one inquired -if madame wanted anything, so that her eyes might be gratified with a last -inquisition of the happy pair. - -'How wonderful! oh, how wonderful! I don't think I ever saw any one act -before like that--did you?' - -'She certainly had three or four moments that could not be surpassed. Her -entrance in the sleep-walking scene--what vague horror! what pale -presentiment! how she filled the stage! nothing seemed to exist but she.' - -'And Ford; what did you think of Ford's Macbeth?' - -'Very good. Everything he does is good. Talent; but the other has genius.' - -'I shall never forget this evening. What an awful tragedy!' - -'Perhaps I should have taken you to see something more cheerful; but I -wanted to see Miss Massey play Lady Macbeth. But let us talk of something -else. Splendid fire--is it not?' - -Hubert threw off his overcoat, the movement attracted Julia's attention, -and it startled her to see how old he seemed to have grown. She noticed as -she had not noticed before the grey in his beard and the pathetic weary -look that haunted his eyes. And she understood in that instant that the -look his face wore was the look of those who have failed in their vocation. - -And at that very moment he was wondering if he really loved her, if his -marriage were a mistake. The passion he had felt when walking with her on -the wet country road he felt no longer, only an undefinable sadness and a -weariness which he could not understand. He looked at his wife, and fearing -that she divined his thoughts, he kissed her. She returned his kiss coldly -and he wondered if she loved him. He thought that it was improbable that -she did. Why should she love him? He had never loved any one. He had never -inspired love in any one, except perhaps Emily. - -'I wonder if you really wished to be married,' she said. - -'I always wished to be married,' he replied. 'I hated the Bohemianism I was -forced to live in. I longed for a home, for a wife.' - -'You were very poor once?' - -'Yes: I've lived on tenpence and a shilling a day. I've worked in the docks -as a labourer. I went down there hoping to get a clerkship on board one of -the Transatlantic steamers. I had had enough of England, and thought of -seeking fortune elsewhere.' - -'I can hardly believe you worked as a labourer in the docks.' - -'Yes; I did. I saw some men going to work, and I joined them. I don't think -I thought much about it at the time. A very little misery rubs all the -psychology out of us, and we return more easily than one thinks to the -animal.' - -'And then?' - -'At the end of a week the work began to tell upon me, and I drifted back in -search of my manuscript.' - -'But you must have been in a dreadful condition; your clothes----' - -'Ah! thereby hangs a tale. An actress lived in one of the houses I had been -lodging in.' - -'Oh, tell me about her! This is getting very interesting.' - -Then passing his arm round his wife's neck, and with her sweet blonde face -looking upon him, and the insinuating warmth of the fire about them, he -told her the story of his failure. - -'But,' she said, her voice trembling, 'you would not have committed -suicide?' - -'No man knows beforehand whether he will commit suicide. I can only say -that every other issue was closed.' - -At the end of a long silence Julia said, 'I wish you hadn't spoken about -suicide. I cannot but think of Emily. If she were to make away with -herself! The very possibility turns my heart to ice. What should I do--what -should we do? I ought never to have given way; we were both abominably -selfish. I can see that poor girl sitting alone in that house grieving her -heart out.' - -'You think that we ought never to have given way!' - -'I suppose we ought not. I tried very hard, you know I did.... But do you -regret?' she said, looking at him suddenly. - -'No; I don't regret, but I wish it had happened otherwise.' - -'You don't fear anything. Nothing will happen. What can happen?' - -'The most terrible things often happen--have happened.' - -'Emily may have been fond of me--I think she was; but it was no more than -the hysterical caprice of a young girl. Besides, people do not die for -love; and I assure you it will be all right. This is not a time for gloomy -thoughts.' - -'I'll try not to think of her. Well, what were we talking about? I know: -about the actress who lived in 17 Fitzroy Street. Tell me about her.' - -'She was a real good girl. If she hadn't lent me that five shillings, I -don't know where I should be now.' - -'Were you very fond of her?' - -'No; there never was anything of that sort between us. We were merely -friends.' - -'And what has become of this actress?' - -'You saw her to-night?' - -'Was she acting in the piece we saw to-night?' - -'It was she who played Lady Macbeth.' - -'You are joking.' - -'No, I'm not. I always knew she had genius, and they have found it out; but -I must say they have taken their time about it.' - -'How wonderful! she has succeeded!' - -'Yes, _she_ has succeeded!' - -'And she is really the girl you intended to play Lady Hayward?' - -'Yes; and I hope she will play the part one of these days.' - -'Of course, she is just the woman for it. What a splendid success she has -had! All London is talking about her.' - -'And I remember when Ford refused to cast her for the adventuress in -_Divorce_. If he had, there is no doubt she would have carried the piece -through. Life is but a bundle of chances; she has succeeded, whatever that -may mean.' - -'But you will let her have the part of Lady Hayward?' - -'Yes, of course--that is to say, if----' - -'Why "if"?' - -'My thoughts are with you, dear; literature seems to have passed out of -sight.' - -'But you must not sacrifice your talent in worship of me. I shall not allow -you. For my sake, if not for hers, you must finish that play. I want you to -be famous. I should be for ever miserable if my love proved a upas-tree.' - -'A upas-tree! It will be you who will help me; it will be your presence -that will help me to write my play. I was always vaguely conscious that you -were a necessary element in my life; but I did not wake up to any knowledge -of it until that day--do you remember?--when you came into my study to ask -me what fish I'd like for dinner, and I begged of you to allow me to read -to you that second act. It is that second act that stops me.' - -'I thought you had written the second act to your satisfaction. You said -that after the talk we had that afternoon you wrote for three hours without -stopping, and that you had never done better work.' - -'Yes, I wrote a great deal; but on reading it over I found that--I don't -mean to say that none of it will stand; some still seems to me to be all -right, but a great deal will require alteration.' - -The conversation fell. At the end of a long silence Hubert said-- - -'What are you thinking of, dearest?' - -'I was thinking that supposing you were mistaken--if I failed to help you -in your work.' - -'And I never succeeded in writing my play?' - -'No; I don't mean that. Of course you will write your play; all you have to -do is to be less critical.' - -'Yes, I know--I have heard that before; but, unfortunately, we cannot -change ourselves. I'll either carry my play through completely, realise my -ideal, or----' - -'Remain for ever unsatisfied?' - -'Whether I write it or no, I shall be happy in your love.' - -'Yes, yes; let us be happy.' - -They looked at each other. He did not speak, but his thought said-- - -'There is no happiness on earth for him who has not accomplished his task.' - -'Shall we be happy? I wonder. We have both suffered,' she said, 'we are -both tired of suffering, and it is only right that we should be happy.' - -'Yes, we shall be happy, I will be happy. It shall be my pleasure to attend -to you, to give you all your desire. But you said just now that you had -suffered. I have told you my past. Tell me yours. I know nothing except -that you were unhappily married.' - -'There is little else to know; a woman's life is not adventurous, like a -man's. I have not known the excitement of "first nights," nor the striving -and the craving for an artistic ideal. My life has been essentially a -woman's life,--suppression of self and monotonous duty, varied by -heart-breaking misfortune. I married when I was very young; before I had -even begun to think about life I found---- But why distress these hours -with painful memories?' - -'It is pleasant to look back on the troubles we have passed through.' - -'Well, I learnt in one year the meaning of three terrible words--poverty, -neglect, and cruelty. In the second year of my marriage my husband died of -drink, and I was left a widow at twenty, entirely penniless. I went to live -with my sister, and she was so poor that I had to support myself by giving -music-lessons. You think you know the meaning of poverty: you may; but you -do not know what a young woman who wants to earn her bread honestly has to -put up with, trudging through wet and cold, mile after mile, to give a -lesson, paid for at the rate of one-and-sixpence or two shillings an hour.' - -Julia took her eyes from her husband's face, and looked dreamily into the -fire. Then, raising her face from the flame, she looked around with the air -of one seeking for some topic of conversation. At that moment she caught -sight of the corner of a letter lying on the mantelpiece. Reaching forth -her hand, she took it. It was addressed to her husband. - -'Here is a letter for you, Hubert.... Why, it comes from Ashwood. Yes, and -it is in the hand-writing of one of the servants. Oh, it is Black's -writing! It may be about Emily. Something may have happened to her. Open it -quickly.' - -'That is not probable. Nothing can have happened to her.' - -'Look and see. Be quick!' - -Hubert opened the letter, and he had not read three lines when Julia's face -caught expression from his, which had become overcast. - -'It is bad news, I know. Something has happened. What is it? Don't keep me -waiting. The suspense is worse than the truth.' - -'It is very awful, Julia. Don't give way.' - -'Tell me what it is. Is she dead? - -'Yes; she is dead.' Julia got up from her husband's knees and stood by the -mantelpiece, leaning upon it. 'It is more than mere death.' - -'What do you mean? She killed herself--is that it?' - -'Yes; she drowned herself the night before last in the lake.' - -'Oh, it is too horrible! Then we have murdered her. Our unpardonable -selfishness! I cannot bear it!' Her eyes closed and her lips trembled. -Hubert caught her in his arms, laid her on the chair, and, fetching some -water in a tumbler, sprinkled her face; then he held it to her lips; she -drank a little, and revived. 'I'm not going to faint. Tell me--tell me when -the unfortunate child----' - -'They don't know exactly. She was in the drawing-room at tea-time, and the -drawing-room was empty when Black went round three-quarters of an hour -after to lock up. He thought she had gone to her room. It was the gardener -who brought in the news in the morning about nine.' - -'Oh, good God!' - -'Black says he noticed that she looked very depressed the day before, but -he thought she was looking better when he brought in the tea.' - -'It was then she got my letter. Does Black say anything about giving her a -letter?' - -'Yes, that is to say----' - -'I knew it! I knew it!' said Julia; and her eyes were wild with grief, and -she rocked herself to and fro. 'It was that letter that drove her to it. It -was most ill-advised. I told you so. You should have written. She would -have borne the news better had it come from you. My instinct told me so, -but I let myself be persuaded. I told you how it would happen. I told you. -You can't say I didn't. Oh! why did you persuade me--why--why--why?' - -'Julia dear, we are not responsible. We were in nowise bound to sacrifice -our happiness to her----' - -'Don't say a word! I say we were bound. Life can never be the same to me -again.' - -Hubert did not answer. Nothing he could say would be of the slightest -avail, and he feared to say anything that might draw from her expressions -which she would afterwards regret. He had never seen her moved like this, -nor did he believe her capable of such agitation, and the contrast of her -present with her usual demeanour made it the more impressive. - -'Oh,' she said, leaning forward and looking at him fixedly, 'take this -nightmare off my brain, or I shall go mad! It isn't true; it cannot be -true. But--oh! yes, it's true enough.' - -'Like you, Julia, I am overwhelmed; but we can do nothing.' - -'Do nothing!' she cried; 'do nothing! We can do nothing but pray for -her--we who sacrificed her.' And she slipped on her knees and burst into a -passionate fit of weeping. - -'The best thing that could have happened,' thought Hubert; and his thought -said, clearly and precisely, 'Yes; it is awful, shocking, cruel beyond -measure!' - -The fire was sinking, and he built it up quietly, ashamed of this proof of -his regard for physical comfort, and hoping it would pass unnoticed. His -pain expressed itself less vehemently than Julia's; but for all that his -mind ached. He remembered how he had taken everything from her--fortune, -happiness, and now life itself. It was an appalling tragedy--one of those -senseless cruelties which we find nature constantly inventing. A thought -revealed an unexpected analogy between him and his victim. In both lives -there had been a supreme desire, and both had failed. 'Hers was the better -part,' he said bitterly. 'Those whose souls are burdened with desire that -may not be gratified had better fling the load aside. They are fools who -carry it on to the end.... If it were not for Julia----' - -Then he sought to determine what were his exact feelings. He knew he was -infinitely sorry for poor Emily; but he could not stir himself into a -paroxysm of grief, and, ashamed of his inability to express his feelings, -he looked at Julia, who still wept. - -'No doubt,' he thought, 'women have keener feelings than we have.' - -At that moment Julia got up from her knees. She had brushed away her tears. -Her face was shaken with grief. - -'My heart is breaking,' she said. 'This is too cruel--too cruel! And on my -wedding night.' - -Their eyes met; and, divining each other's thought, each felt ashamed, and -Julia said-- - -'Oh, what am I saying? This dreadful selfishness, from which we cannot -escape, that is with us even in such a moment as this! That poor child gone -to her death, and yet amid it all we must think of ourselves.' - -'My dear Julia, we cannot escape from our human nature; but, for all that, -our grief is sincere. We can do nothing. Do not grieve like that.' - -'And why not? She was my best friend. How have I repaid her? Alas! as woman -always repays woman for kindness done. The old story. I cannot forgive -myself. No, no! do not kiss me! I cannot bear it. Leave me. I can see -nothing but Emily's reproachful face.' She covered her face in her hands -and sobbed again. - -The same scenes repeated themselves over and over again. The same fits of -passionate grief; the same moment of calm, when words impregnated with self -dropped from their lips. The same nervous sense that something of the dead -girl stood between them. And still they sat by the fire, weary with sorrow, -recrimination, long regret, and pain. They could grieve no more; and before -dawn sleep pressed upon their eyelids, and at the end of a long silence he -dozed--a pale, transparent sleep, through which the realities of life -appeared almost as plainly as before. Suddenly he awoke, and he shivered in -the chill room. The fire was sinking; dawn divided the window-curtains. He -looked at his wife. She seemed to him very beautiful as she slept, her face -turned a little on one side, and again he asked himself if he loved her. -Then, going to the window, he drew the curtains softly, so as not to awaken -her; and as he stood watching a thin discoloured day breaking over the -roofs, it again seemed to him that Emily's suicide was the better part. -'Those who do not perform their task in life are never happy.' The words -drilled themselves into his brain with relentless insistency. He felt a -terrible emptiness within him which he could not fill. He looked at his -wife and quailed a little at the thought that had suddenly come upon him. -She was something like himself--that was why he had married her. We are -attracted by what is like ourselves. Emily's passion might have stirred -him. Now he would have to settle down to live with Julia, and their similar -natures would grow more and more like one another. Then, turning on his -thoughts, he dismissed them. They were the morbid feverish fancies of an -exceptional, of a terrible night. He opened the window quietly so as not to -awaken his wife. And in the melancholy greyness of the dawn he looked down -into the street and wondered what the end would be. - -He did not think that he would live long. Disappointed men--those who have -failed in their ambition--do not live to make old bones. There were men -like him in every profession--the arts are crowded with them. He had met -barristers and soldiers and clergy-men, just like himself. One hears of -their deaths--failure of the heart's action, paralysis of the brain, a -hundred other medical causes--but the real cause is, lack of appreciation. - -He would hang on for another few years, no doubt; during that time he must -try to make his wife happy. His duty was now to be a good husband, at all -events, there was that. - -His wife lay asleep in the arm-chair, and fearing she might catch cold, he -came into the room closing the window very gently behind him. - -THE END - -Printed by T. and A. 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For -example an eBook of filename 10234 would be found at: - -https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/2/3/10234 - -or filename 24689 would be found at: -https://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/6/8/24689 - -An alternative method of locating eBooks: -https://www.gutenberg.org/GUTINDEX.ALL - -*** END: FULL LICENSE *** diff --git a/old/11303.zip b/old/11303.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 381eb95..0000000 --- a/old/11303.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/old-2025-03-07/11303-0.txt b/old/old-2025-03-07/11303-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8ab774c..0000000 --- a/old/old-2025-03-07/11303-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6068 +0,0 @@ -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11303 *** - -[Illustration: "She slipped on her knees, and burst into a passionate fit -of weeping."] - -Vain Fortune - -A Novel - -By - -George Moore - -_With Five Illustrations By__Maurice Greiffenhagen_ - -New Edition - -Completely Revised - -London: Walter Scott, Ltd. Paternoster Square - -1895 - -Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty - - - - -Prefatory Note - - -I hope it will not seem presumptuous to ask my critics to treat this new -edition of _Vain Fortune_ as a new book: for it is a new book. The first -edition was kindly noticed, but it attracted little attention, and very -rightly, for the story as told therein was thin and insipid; and when -Messrs. Scribner proposed to print the book in America, I stipulated that I -should be allowed to rewrite it. They consented, and I began the story with -Emily Watson, making her the principal character instead of Hubert Price. -Some months after I received a letter from Madam Couperus, offering to -translate the English edition into Dutch. I sent her the American edition, -and asked her which she would prefer to translate from. Madam Couperus -replied that many things in the English edition, which she would like to -retain, had been omitted from the American edition, that the hundred or -more pages which I had written for the American edition seemed to her -equally worthy of retention. - -She pointed out that, without the alteration of a sentence, the two -versions could be combined. The idea had not occurred to me; I saw, -however, that what she proposed was not only feasible but advantageous. I -wrote, therefore, giving her the required permission, and thanking her for -a suggestion which I should avail myself of when the time came for a new -English edition. - -The union of the texts was no doubt accomplished by Madam Couperus, without -the alteration of a sentence; but no such accomplished editing is possible -to me; I am a victim to the disease of rewriting, and the inclusion of the -hundred or more pages of new matter written for the American edition led me -into a third revision of the story. But no more than in the second has the -skeleton, or the attitude of the skeleton been altered in this third -version, only flesh and muscle have been added, and, I think, a little -life. _Vain Fortune_, even in its present form, is probably not my best -book, but it certainly is far from being my worst. But my opinion regarding -my own work is of no value; I do not write this Prefatory Note to express -it, but to ask my critics and my readers to forget the original _Vain -Fortune_, and to read this new book as if it were issued under another -title. - -G.M. - - - - -I - - -The lamp had not been wiped, and the room smelt slightly of paraffin. The -old window-curtains, whose harsh green age had not softened, were drawn. -The mahogany sideboard, the threadbare carpet, the small horsehair sofa, -the gilt mirror, standing on a white marble chimney-piece, said clearly, -'Furnished apartments in a house built about a hundred years ago.' There -were piles of newspapers, there were books on the mahogany sideboard and on -the horsehair sofa, and on the table there were various manuscripts,--_The -Gipsy_, Act I.; _The Gipsy_, Act III., Scenes iii. and iv. - -A sheet of foolscap paper, and upon it a long slender hand. The hand traced -a few lines of fine, beautiful caligraphy, then it paused, correcting with -extreme care what was already written, and in a hesitating, minute way, -telling of a brain that delighted in the correction rather than in the -creation of form. - -The shirt-cuff was frayed and dirty. The coat was thin and shiny. A -half-length figure of a man drew out of the massed shadows between the -window and sideboard. The red beard caught the light, and the wavy brown -hair brightened. Then a look of weariness, of distress, passed over the -face, and the man laid down the pen, and, taking some tobacco from a paper, -rolled a cigarette. Rising, and leaning forward, he lighted it over the -lamp. He was a man of about thirty-six feet, broad-shouldered, well-built, -healthy, almost handsome. - -The time he spent in dreaming his play amounted to six times, if not ten -times, as much as he devoted to trying to write it; and he now lit -cigarette after cigarette, abandoning himself to every meditation,--the -unpleasantness of life in lodgings, the charm of foreign travel, the beauty -of the south, what he would do if his play succeeded. He plunged into -calculation of the time it would take him to finish it if he were to sit at -home all day, working from seven to ten hours every day. If he could but -make up his mind concerning the beginning and the middle of the third act, -and about the end, too,--the solution,--he felt sure that, with steady -work, the play could be completed in a fortnight. In such reverie and such -consideration he lay immersed, oblivious of the present moment, and did not -stir from his chair until the postman shook the frail walls with a violent -double knock. He hoped for a letter, for a newspaper--either would prove a -welcome distraction. The servant's footsteps on the stairs told him the -post had brought him something. His heart sank at the thought that it was -probably only a bill, and he glanced at all the bills lying one above -another on the table. - -It was not a bill, nor yet an advertisement, but a copy of a weekly review. -He tore it open. An article about himself! - -After referring to the deplorable condition of the modern stage, the writer -pointed out how dramatic writing has of late years come to be practised -entirely by men who have failed in all other branches of literature. Then -he drew attention to the fact that signs of weariness and dissatisfaction -with the old stale stories, the familiar tricks in bringing about 'striking -situations,' were noticeable, not only in the newspaper criticisms of new -plays, but also among the better portion of the audience. He admitted, -however, that hitherto the attempts made by younger writers in the -direction of new subject-matter and new treatment had met with little -success. But this, he held, was not a reason for discouragement. Did those -who believed in the old formulas imagine that the new formula would be -discovered straight away, without failures preliminary? Besides, these -attempts were not utterly despicable; at least one play written on the new -lines had met with some measure of success, and that play was Mr. Hubert -Price's _Divorce_. - -'Yes, the fellow is right. The public is ready for a good play: it wasn't -when _Divorce_ was given. I must finish _The Gipsy_. There are good things -in it; that I know. But I wish I could get that third act right. The public -will accept a masterpiece, but it will not accept an attempt to write a -masterpiece. But this time there'll be no falling off in the last acts. The -scene between the gipsy lover and the young lord will fetch 'em.' Taking up -the review, Hubert glanced over the article a second time. 'How anxious the -fellows are for me to achieve a success! How they believe in me! They -desire it more than I do. They believe in me more than I do in myself. They -want to applaud me. They are hungry for the masterpiece.' - -At that moment his eye was caught by some letters written on blue paper. -His face resumed a wearied and hunted expression. 'There's no doubt about -it, money I must get somehow. I am running it altogether too fine. There -isn't twenty pounds between me and the deep sea.' - - * * * * * - -He was the son of the Rev. James Price, a Shropshire clergyman. The family -was of Welsh extraction, but in Hubert none of the physical characteristics -of the Celt appeared. He might have been selected as a typical Anglo-Saxon. -The face was long and pale, and he wore a short reddish beard; the eyes -were light blue, verging on grey, and they seemed to speak a quiet, -steadfast soul. Hubert had always been his mother's favourite, and the -scorn of his elder brothers, two rough boys, addicted in early youth to -robbing orchards, and later on to gambling and drinking. The elder, after -having broken his father's heart with debts and disgraceful living, had -gone out to the Cape. News of his death came to the Rectory soon after; but -James's death did not turn Henry from his evil courses, and one day his -father and mother had to go to London on his account, and they brought him -back a hopeless invalid. Hubert was twelve years of age when he followed -his brother to the grave. - -It was at his brother's funeral that Hubert met for the first time his -uncle, Mr. Burnett. Mr. Burnett had spent the greater part of his life in -New Zealand, where he had made a large fortune by sheep-farming and -investments in land. He had seemed to be greatly taken with his nephew, and -for many years it was understood that he would leave him the greater part, -if not the whole, of his fortune. But Mr. Burnett had come under the -influence of some poor relations, some distant cousins, the Watsons, and -had eventually decided to adopt their daughter Emily and leave her his -fortune. He did not dare intimate his change of mind to his sister; but the -news having reached Mrs. Price in various rumours, she wrote to her brother -asking him to confirm or deny these rumours; and when he admitted their -truth, Mrs. Price never spoke to him again. She was a determined woman, and -the remembrance of the wrong done to her son never left her. - -While the other children had been a torment and disgrace, Hubert had been -to his parents a consolation and a blessing. They had feared that he too -might turn to betting and drink, but he had never shown sign of low tastes. -He played no games, nor did he care for terriers or horses; but for books -and drawing, and long country walks. Immediately on hearing of his -disinheritance he had spoken at once of entering a profession; and for many -months this was the subject of consideration in the Rectory. Hubert joined -in these discussions willingly, but he could not bring himself to accept -the army or the bar. It was indeed only necessary to look at him to see -that neither soldier's tunic nor lawyer's wig was intended for him; and it -was nearly as clear that those earnest eyes, so intelligent and yet so -undetermined in their gaze, were not those of a doctor. - -But if his eyes failed to predict his future, his hands told the story of -his life distinctly enough--those long, white, languid hands, what could -they mean but art? And very soon Hubert began to draw, evincing some -natural aptitude. Then an artist came into the neighbourhood, the two -became friends, and went together on a long sketching tour. Life in the -open air, the shade of the hedge, the glare of the highway, the meditation -of the field, the languor of the river-side, the contemplation of wooded -horizons, was what Hubert's pastoral nature was most fitted to enjoy; and, -for the sake of the life it afforded him, he pursued the calling of a -landscape painter long after he had begun to feel his desire turning in -another direction. When the landscape on the canvas seemed hopelessly -inadequate, he laid aside the brush for the pencil, and strove to interpret -the summer fields in verse. From verse he drifted into the article and the -short story, and from the story into the play. And it was in this last form -that he felt himself strongest, and various were the dramas and comedies -that he dreamed from year's end to year's end. - -While he was in the midst of his period of verse-writing his mother died, -and in the following year, just as he was working at his stories, he -received a telegram calling him to attend his father's death-bed. When the -old man was laid in the shadow of the weather-beaten village church, Hubert -gathered all his belongings and bade farewell for ever to the Shropshire -rectory. - -In London Hubert made few friends. There were some two or three men with -whom he was frequently seen--quiet folk like himself, whose enjoyment -consisted in smoking a tranquil pipe in the evening, or going for long -walks in the country. He was one of those men whose indefiniteness provokes -curiosity, and his friends noticed and wondered why it was that he was so -frequently the theme of their conversation. His simple, unaffected manners -were full of suggestion, and in his writings there was always an -indefinable rainbow-like promise of ultimate achievement. So, long before -he had succeeded in writing a play, detached scenes and occasional verses -led his friends into gradual belief that he was one from whom big things -might be expected. And when the one-act play which they had all so heartily -approved of was produced, and every newspaper praised it for its literary -quality, the friends took pride in this public vindication of their -opinion. After the production of his play people came to see the new -author, and every Saturday evening some fifteen or twenty men used to -assemble in Hubert's lodgings to drink whisky, smoke cigars, and talk -drama. Encouraged by his success, Hubert wrote _Divorce_. He worked -unceasingly upon it for more than a year, and when he had written the final -scene, he was breaking into his last hundred pounds. The play was refused -twice, and then accepted by a theatrical speculator, to whom it seemed to -afford opportunity for the exhibition of the talents of a lady he was -interested in. - -The success of the play was brief. But before it was withdrawn, Hubert had -sold the American rights for a handsome sum, and within the next two years -he had completed a second play, which he called _An Ebbing Tide_. Some of -the critics argued that it contained scenes as fine as any in _Divorce_, -but it was admitted on all sides that the interest withered in the later -acts. But the failure of the play did not shake the established belief in -Hubert's genius; it merely concentrated the admiration of those interested -in the new art upon _Divorce_, the partial failure of which was now -attributed to the acting. If it had only been played at the Haymarket or -the Lyceum, it could not have failed. - -The next three years Hubert wasted in various aestheticisms. He explained -the difference between the romantic and realistic methods in the reviews; -he played with a poetic drama to be called _The King of the Beggars_, and -it was not until the close of the third year that he settled down to -definite work. Then all his energies were concentrated on a new play--_The -Gipsy_. A young woman of Bohemian origin is suddenly taken with the -nostalgia of the tent, and leaves her husband and her home to wander with -those of her race. He had read portions of this play to his friends, who at -last succeeded in driving Montague Ford, the popular actor-manager, to -Hubert's door; and after hearing some few scenes he had offered a couple of -hundred pounds in advance of fees for the completed manuscript. 'But when -can I have the manuscript?' said Ford, as he was about to leave. 'As soon -as I can finish it,' Hubert replied, looking at him wistfully out of pale -blue-grey eyes. 'I could finish it in a month, if I could count on not -being worried by duns or disturbed by friends during that time.' - -Ford looked at Hubert questioningly; then he said 'I have always noticed -that when a fellow wants to finish a play, the only way to do it is to go -away to the country and leave no address.' - -But the country was always so full of pleasure for him, that he doubted his -power to remain indoors with the temptation of fields and rivers before his -eyes, and he thought that to escape from dunning creditors it would be -sufficient to change his address. So he left Norfolk Street for the more -remote quarter of Fitzroy Street, where he took a couple of rooms on the -second floor. One of his fellow-lodgers, he soon found, was Rose Massey, an -actress engaged for the performance of small parts at the Queen's Theatre. -The first time he spoke to her was on the doorstep. She had forgotten her -latch-key, and he said, 'Will you allow me to let you in?' She stepped -aside, but did not answer him. Hubert thought her rude, but her strange -eyes and absent-minded manner had piqued his curiosity, and, having nothing -to do that night, he went to the theatre to see her act. She was playing a -very small part, and one that was evidently unsuited to her--a part that -was in contradiction to her nature; but there was something behind the -outer envelope which led him to believe she had real talent, and would make -a name for herself when she was given a part that would allow her to reveal -what was in her. - -In the meantime, Rose had been told that the gentleman she had snubbed in -the passage was Mr. Hubert Price, the author of _Divorce_. - -'Oh, it was very silly of me,' she said to Annie. 'If I had only known!' - -'Lor', he don't mind; he'll be glad enough to speak to you when you meets -him again.' - -And when they met again on the stairs, Rose nodded familiarly, and Hubert -said-- - -'I went to the Queen's the other night.' - -'Did you like the piece?' - -'I did not care about the piece; but when you get a wild, passionate part -to play, you'll make a hit. The sentimental parts they give you don't suit -you.' - -A sudden light came into the languid face. 'Yes, I shall do something if I -can get a part like that.' - -Hubert told her that he was writing a play containing just such a part. - -Her eyes brightened again. 'Will you read me the play?' she said, fixing -her dark, dreamy eyes on him. - -'I shall be very glad.... Do you think it won't bore you?' And his wistful -grey eyes were full of interrogation. - -'No, I'm sure it won't.' - -And a few days after she sent Annie with a note, reminding him of his -promise to read her what he had written. As she had only a bedroom, the -reading had to take place in his sitting-room. He read her the first and -second acts. She was all enthusiasm, and begged hard to be allowed to study -the part--just to see what she could do with it--just to let him see that -he was not mistaken in her. Her interest in his work captivated him, and he -couldn't refuse to lend her the manuscript. - - - - -II - - -Rose often came to see Hubert in his rooms. Her manner was disappointing, -and he thought he must be mistaken in his first judgment of her talents. -But one afternoon she gave him a recitation of the sleep-walking scene in -_Macbeth_. It was strange to see this little dark-complexioned, dark-eyed -girl, the merest handful of flesh and bone, divest herself at will of her -personality, and assume the tragic horror of Lady Macbeth, or the -passionate rapture of Juliet detaining her husband-lover on the balcony of -her chamber. Hubert watched in wonderment this girl, so weak and languid in -her own nature, awaking only to life when she assumed the personality of -another. There she lay, her wispy form stretched in his arm-chair, her -great dark eyes fixed, her mind at rest, sunk in some inscrutable dream. -Her thin hand lay on the arm of the chair: when she woke from her day-dream -she burst into irresponsible laughter, or questioned him with petulant -curiosity. He looked again: her dark curling hair hung on her swarthy neck, -and she was somewhat untidily dressed in blue linen. - -'Were you ever in love?' she said suddenly. 'I don't suppose you could be; -you are too occupied with your play. I don't know, though; you might be in -love, but I don't think that many women would be in love with you.... You -are too good a man, and women don't like good men.' - -Hubert laughed, and without a trace of offended vanity in his voice he -said, 'I don't profess to be much of a lady-killer.' - -'You don't know what I mean,' she said, looking at him fixedly, a maze of -half-childish, half-artistic curiosity in her handsome eyes. - -Perplexed in his shy, straightford nature, Hubert inquired if she took -sugar in her tea. She said she did; stretched her feet to the fire, and -lapsed into dream. She was one of the enigmas of Stageland. She supported -herself, and went about by herself, looking a poor, lost little thing. She -spoke with considerable freedom of language on all subjects, but no one had -been able to fix a lover upon her. - -'What a part Lady Hayward is! But tell me,--I don't quite catch your -meaning in the second act. Is this it?' and starting to her feet, she -became in a moment another being. With a gesture, a look, an intonation, -she was the woman of the play,--a woman taken by an instinct, long -submerged, but which has floated to the surface, and is beginning to -command her actions. In another moment she had slipped back into her weary -lymphatic nature, at once prematurely old and extravagantly childish. She -could not talk of indifferent things; and having asked some strange -questions, and laughed loudly, she wished Hubert 'Good-afternoon' in her -curious, irresponsible fashion, taking her leave abruptly. - -The next two days Hubert devoted entirely to his play. There were things in -it which he knew were good, but it was incomplete. Montague Ford would not -produce it in its present form. He must put his shoulder to the wheel and -get it right; one more push, that was all that was wanted. And he could be -heard walking to and fro, up and down, along and across his tiny -sitting-room, stopping suddenly to take a note of an idea that had occurred -to him. - -One day he went to Hampstead Heath. A long walk, he thought, would clear -his mind, and he returned home thinking of his play. The sunset still -glittering in the skies; the bare trees were beautifully distinct on the -blue background of the suburban street, and at the end of the long -perspective, a 'bus and a hansom could be seen coming towards him. As they -grew larger, his thoughts defined themselves, and the distressing problem -of his fourth act seemed to solve itself. That very evening he would sketch -out a new dramatic movement around which all the other movements of the act -would cluster. But at the corner of Fitzroy Square, within a few yards of -No. 17, he was accosted by a shabbily-dressed man, who inquired if he were -Mr. Price. On being answered in the affirmative, the shabbily-dressed man -said, 'Then I have something for ye; I have been a-watching for ye for the -last three days, but ye didn't come out; missed yer this morning: 'ere it -is;' and he thrust a folded paper into Hubert's hand. - -'What is this?' - -'Don't yer know?' he said with a grin; 'Messrs. Tomkins & Co., Tailors, -writ--twenty-two pound odd.' - -Hubert made no answer; he put the paper in his pocket, opened the door -quietly, stole up to his room, and sat down to think. The first thing to do -was to examine into his finances. It was alarming to find that he was -breaking into his last five-pound note. True that he was close on the end -of his play, and when it was finished he would be able to draw on Ford. But -a summons to appear in the county court could not fail to do him immense -injury. He had heard of avoiding service, but he knew little of the law, -and wondered what power the service of the writ gave his creditor over him. -His instinct was to escape--hide himself where they would not be able to -find him, and so obtain time to finish his play. But he owed his landlady -money, and his departure would have to be clandestine. As he reflected on -how many necessaries he might carry away in a newspaper, he began to feel -strangely like a criminal, and while rolling up a couple of shirts, a few -pairs of socks, and some collars, he paused, his hands resting on the -parcel. He did not seem to know himself, and it was difficult to believe -that he really intended to leave the house in this disreputable fashion. -Mechanically he continued to add to his parcel, thinking all the while that -he must go, otherwise his play would never be written. - -He had been working very well for the last few days, and now he saw his way -quite clearly; the inspiration he had been so long waiting for had come at -last, and he felt sure of his fourth act. At the same time he wished to -conduct himself honestly, even in this distressing situation. Should he -tell his landlady the truth? But the desire to realise his idea was -intolerable, and, yielding as if before an irresistible force, he tied the -parcel and prepared to go. At that moment he remembered that he must leave -a note for his landlady, and he was more than ever surprised at the -naturalness with which lying phrases came into his head. But when it came -to committing them to paper, he found he could not tell an absolute lie, -and he wrote a simple little note to the effect that he had been called -away on urgent business, and hoped to return in about a week. - -He descended the stairs softly. Mrs. Wilson's sitting-room opened on to the -passage; she might step out at any moment, and intercept his exit. He had -nearly reached the last flight when he remembered that he had forgotten his -manuscripts. His flesh turned cold, his heart stood still. There was -nothing for it but to ascend those creaking stairs again. His already -heavily encumbered pockets could not be persuaded to receive more than a -small portion of the manuscripts. He gathered them in his hand, and -prepared to redescend the perilous stairs. He walked as lightly as -possible, dreading that every creak would bring Mrs. Wilson from her -parlour. A few more steps, and he would be in the passage. A smell of dust, -sounds of children crying, children talking in the kitchen! A few more -steps, and, with his eyes on the parlour door, Hubert had reached the rug -at the foot of the stairs. He hastened along, the passage. Mrs. Wilson was -a moment too late. His hand was on the street-door when she appeared at the -door of her parlour. - -'Mr. Price, I want to speak to you before you go out. There has----' - -'I can't wait--running to catch a train. You'll find a letter on my table. -It will explain.' - -Hubert slipped out, closed the door, and ran down the street, and it was -not until he had put two or three streets between him and Fitzroy Street -that he relaxed his pace, and could look behind him without dreading to -feel the hand of the 'writter' upon his shoulder. - - - - -III - - -Then he wandered, not knowing where he was going, still in the sensation of -his escape, a little amused, and yet with a shadow of fear upon his soul, -for he grew more and more conscious of the fact that he was homeless, if -not quite penniless. Suddenly he stopped walking. Night was thickening in -the street, and he had to decide where he would sleep. He could not afford -to pay more than five or six shillings a week for a room, and he thought of -Holloway, as being a neighbourhood where creditors would not be able to -find him. So he retraced his steps, and, tired and footsore, entered the -Tottenham Court Road by the Oxford Street end. - -There the omnibuses stopped. A conductor shouted for fares, with the light -of the public-house lamps on his open mouth. There was smell of mud, of -damp clothes, of bad tobacco, and where the lights of the costermongers' -barrows broke across the footway the picture was of a group of three -coarse, loud-voiced girls, followed by boys. There were fish shops, cheap -Italian restaurants, and the long lines of low houses vanished in crapulent -night. The characteristics of the Tottenham Court Road impressed themselves -on Hubert's mind, and he thought how he would have to bear for at least -three weeks with all the grime of its poverty. It would take about that -time to finish his play, and the neighbourhood would suit his purpose -excellently well. So long as he did not pass beyond it he ran little risk -of discovery, and to secure himself against friends and foes he penetrated -farther northward, not stopping till he reached the confines of Holloway. - -Then a little dim street caught his eye, and he knocked at the door of the -first house exhibiting a card in the parlour window. But they did not let -their bedroom under seven shillings, and this seemed to Hubert to be an -extravagant price. He tried farther on, and at last found a clean room for -six shillings. Having no luggage, he paid a week's rent in advance, and the -landlady promised to get him a small table, on which he could write, a -small table that would fit in somewhere near the window. She asked him when -he would like to be called, and put the candlestick on the chair. Hubert -looked round the room, and a moment sufficed to complete the survey. It was -about seven feet long. The lower half of the window was curtained by a -piece of muslin hardly bigger than a good-sized pocket-handkerchief; to do -anything in this room except to lie in bed seemed difficult, and Hubert sat -down on the bed and emptied out his pockets. He had just four pounds, and -the calculation how long he could live on such a sum took him some time. -His breakfast, whether he had it at home or in the coffee-house, would cost -him at least fourpence. He thought he would be able to obtain a fairly good -dinner in one of the little Italian restaurants for ninepence. His tea -would cost the same as his breakfast. To these sums he must add twopence -for tobacco and a penny for an evening paper--impossible to do without -tobacco, and he must know what was going on in the world. He could -therefore live for one shilling and eightpence a day--eleven shillings a -week--to which he would have to add six shillings a week for rent, -altogether seventeen shillings a week. He really did not see how he could -do it cheaper. Four times seventeen are sixty-eight; sixty-eight shillings -for a month of life, and he had eighty shillings--twelve shillings for -incidental expenses; and out of that twelve shillings he must buy a shirt, -a sponge, and a tooth brush, and when they were bought there would be very -little left. He must finish his play under the month. Nothing could be -clearer than that. - -Next morning he asked the landlady to let him have a cup of tea and some -bread and butter, and he ate as much bread as he could, to save himself -from being hungry in the middle of the day. He began work immediately, and -continued until seven, and feeling then somewhat light-headed, but -satisfied with himself, went to the nearest Italian restaurant. The food -was better than he expected; but he spent twopence more than he had -intended, so, to accustom himself to a life of strict measure and -discipline, he determined to forego his tea that evening. And so he lived -and worked until the end of the week. - -But the situation he had counted on to complete his fourth act had proved -almost impracticable in the working out; he laboured on, however, and at -the end of the tenth day at least one scene satisfied him. He read it over -slowly, carefully, thought about it, decided that it was excellent, and lay -down on his bed to consider it. At that moment it struck him that he had -better calculate how much he had spent in the last ten days. He gathered -himself into a sitting posture and counted his money; he had spent thirty -shillings, and at that rate his money would not hold out till the end of -the month. He must reduce his expenditure; but how? Impossible to find a -room where he could live more cheaply than in the one he had got, and it is -not easy to dine in London on less than ninepence. Only the poor can live -cheaply. He pressed his hands to his face. His head seemed like splitting, -and his monetary difficulty, united with his literary difficulties, -produced a momentary insanity. Work that morning was impossible, so he went -out to study the eating-houses of the neighbourhood. He must find one where -he could dine for sixpence. Or he might buy a pound of cooked beef and take -it home with him in a paper bag; but that would seem an almost intolerable -imprisonment in his little room. He could go to a public-house and dine off -a sausage and potato. But at that moment his attention was caught by black -letters on a dun, yellowish ground: 'Lockhart's Cocoa Rooms.' Not having -breakfasted, he decided to have a cup of cocoa and a roll. - -It was a large, barn-like place, the walls covered with a coat of grey-blue -paint. Under the window there was a zinc counter, with zinc urns always -steaming, emiting odours of tea, coffee, and cocoa. The seats were like -those which give a garden-like appearance to the tops of some omnibuses. -Each was made to hold two persons, and the table between them was large -enough for four plates and four pairs of hands. A few hollow-chested men, -the pale vagrants of civilisation, drowsed in the corners. They had been -hunted through the night by the policeman, and had come in for something -hot. Hubert noted the worn frock-coats, and the miserable arms coming out -of shirtless sleeves. One looked up inquiringly, and Hubert thought how -slight had become the line that divided him from the outcast. A -serving-maid collected the plates, knives and forks, when the customers -left, and carried them back to the great zinc counter. - -Impressed by his appearance, she brought him what he had ordered and took -the money for it, although the custom of the place was for the customer to -pay for food at the counter and carry it himself to the table at which he -chose to eat. Hubert learnt that there was no set dinner, but there was a -beef-steak pudding at one, price fourpence, a penny potatoes, a penny -bread. So by dining at Lockhart's he would be able to cut down his daily -expense by at least twopence; that would extend the time to finish his play -by nearly a week. And if his appetite were not keen, he could assuage it -with a penny plum pudding; or he could take a middle course, making his -dinner off a sausage and mashed potatoes. The room was clean, well lighted, -and airy; he could read his paper there, and forget his troubles in the -observation of character. He even made friends. An old wizen creature, who -had been a prize-fighter, told him of his triumphs. If he hadn't broke his -hand on somebody's nose he'd have been champion light-weight of England. -'And to think that I have come to this,' he added emphatically. 'Even them -boys knock me about now, and 'alf a century ago I could 'ave cleared the -bloomin' place.' There was a merry little waif from the circus who loved to -come and sit with Hubert. She had been a rider, she said, but had broken -her leg on one occasion, and cut her head all open on another, and had -ended by running away with some one who had deserted her. 'So here I am,' -she remarked, with a burst of laughter, 'talking to you. Did you never hear -of Dolly Dayrell?' Hubert confessed that he had not. 'Why,' she said, 'I -thought every one had.' - -About eight o'clock in the evening, the table near the stairs was generally -occupied by flower-girls, dressed in dingy clothes, and brightly feathered -hats. They placed their empty baskets on the floor, and shouted at their -companions--men who sold newspapers, boot-laces, and cheap toys. About nine -the boys came in, the boys who used to push the old prize-fighter about, -and Hubert soon began to perceive how representative they were of all -vices--gambling, theft, idleness, and cruelty were visible in their faces. -They were led by a Jew boy who sold penny jewellery at the corner of Oxford -Street, and they generally made for the tables at the end of the room, for -there, unless custom was slack indeed, they could defeat the vigilance of -the serving-maid and play at nap at their ease. The tray of penny jewellery -was placed at the corner of a table, and a small boy set to watch over it. -His duty was also to shuffle his feet when the servant-maid approached, and -a precious drubbing he got if he failed to shuffle them loud enough. The -''ot un,' as he was nicknamed, always had a pack of cards in his pocket, -and to annex everything left on the tables he considered to be his -privilege. One day, when he was asked how he came by the fine carnation in -his buttonhole, he said it was a present from Sally, neglecting to add that -he had told the child to steal it from a basket which a flower-girl had -just put down. - -[Illustration: "'A dirty, hignominious lot, them boys is.'"] - -Hubert hated this boy, and once could not resist boxing his ears. The ''ot -un' writhed easily out of his reach, and then assailed him with foul -language, and so loud were his words that they awoke the innocent cause of -the quarrel, a weak, sickly-looking man, with pale blue eyes and a blonde -beard. Hubert had protected him before now against the brutality of the -boys, who, when they were not playing nap, divided their pleasantries -between him and the decrepit prize-fighter. He came in about nine, took a -cup of coffee from the counter, and settled himself for a snooze. The boys -knew this, and it was their amusement to keep him awake by pelting him with -egg-shells and other missiles. Hubert noticed that he had always with him a -red handkerchief full of some sort of loose rubbish, which the boys -gathered when it fell about the floor, or purloined from the handkerchief -when they judged that the owner was sufficiently fast asleep. Hubert now -saw that the handkerchief was filled with bits of coloured chalk, and -guessed that the man must be a pavement artist. - -'A dirty, hignominious lot, them boys is,' said the artist, fixing his -pale, melancholy eyes on Hubert; 'bad manners, no eddication, and, above -all, no respect.' - -'They are an unmannerly lot--that Jew boy especially. I don't think there's -a vice he hasn't got.' - -The artist stared at Hubert a long time in silence. A thought seemed to be -stirring in his mind. - -'I'm speaking, I can see, to a man of eddication. I'm a fust-rate judge of -character, though I be but a pavement artist; but a picture's none the less -a picture, no matter where it is drawn. That's true, ain't it?' - -'Quite true. A horse is a horse, and an ass is an ass, no matter what -stable you put them into.' - -The artist laughed a guttural laugh, and, fixing his pale blue porcelain -eyes on Hubert, he said-- - -'Yes; see I made no bloomin' error when I said you was a man of eddication. -A literary gent, I should think. In the reporting line, most like. Down in -the luck like myself. What was it--drink? Got the chuck?' - -'No,' said Hubert, 'never touch it. Out of work.' - -'No offence, master, we're all mortal, we is all weak, and in misfortune we -goes to it. It was them boys that drove me to it.' - -'How was that?' - -'They was always round my show; no getting rid of them, and their remarks -created a disturbance; the perlice said he wouldn't 'ave it, and when the -perlice won't 'ave it, what's a poor man to do? They are that hignorant. -But what's the use of talking of it, it only riles me.' The blue-eyed man -lay back in his seat, and his head sank on his chest. He looked as if he -were going to sleep again, but on Hubert's asking him to explain his -troubles, he leaned across the table. - -'Well, I'll tell yer. Yer be an eddicated man, and I likes to talk to them -that 'as 'ad an eddication. Yer says, and werry truly, just now, that -changing the stable don't change an 'orse into a hass, or a hass into an -'orse. That is werry true, most true, none but a eddicated man could 'ave -made that 'ere hobservation. I likes yer for it. Give us yer 'and. The -public just thinks too much of the stable, and not enough of what's inside. -Leastways that's my experience of the public, and I 'ave been a-catering -for the public ever since I was a growing lad--sides of bacon, ships on -fire, good old ship on fire.... I knows the public. Yer don't follow me?' - -'Not quite.' - -'A moment, and I'll explain. You'll admit there's no blooming reason except -the public's blooming hignorance why a man shouldn't do as good a picture -on the pavement as on a piece of canvas, provided he 'ave the blooming -genius. There is no doubt that with them 'ere chalks and a nice smooth -stone that Raphael--I 'ave been to the National Gallery and 'ave studied -'is work, and werry fine some of it is, although I don't altogether -hold--but that's another matter. What was I a-saying of? I remember,--that -with them 'ere chalks, and a nice smooth stone, there's no reason why a -masterpiece shouldn't be done. That's right, ain't it? I ask you, as a man -of eddication, to say if that ain't right; as a representative of the -Press, I asks you to say.' Hubert nodded, and the pale-eyed man continued. -'Well, that's what the public won't see, can't see. Raphael, says I, could -'ave done a masterpiece with them 'ere chalks and a nice smooth stone. But -do yer think 'e 'd 'ave been allowed? Do yer think the perlice would 'ave -stood it? Do yer think the public would 'ave stood him doing masterpieces -on the pavement? I'd give 'im just one afternoon. Them boys would 'ave got -'im into trouble, just as they did me. Raphael would 'ave been told to wipe -them out just as I was.' - -The conversation paused; and, half amused, half frightened, Hubert -considered the pale vague face, and he was struck by the scattered look of -aspiration that wandered in the pale blue eyes. - -'I'll tell you,' said the man, growing more excited, and leaning further -across the table; 'I'll tell you, because I knows you for an eddicated man, -and won't blab. S'pose yer thinks, like the rest of the world, that the -chaps wot smears, for it ain't drawing, the pavement with bits of bacon, a -ship on fire, and the regulation oysters, does them out of their own -'eads?' Hubert nodded. 'I'm not surprised that you do, all the world do, -and the public chucks down its coppers to the poor hartist; but 'e aint no -hartist, no more than is them 'ere boys that did for my show.' Leaning -still further forward, he lowered his voice to a whisper. 'They learns it -all by 'art; there is schools for the teaching of it down in Whitechapel. -They can just do what they learns by 'art, not one of them could draw that -'ere chair or table from natur'; but I could. I 'ave an original talent. It -was a long time afore I found out it was there,' he said, tapping his -forehead; 'but it is there,' he said, fixing his eyes on Hubert, 'and when -it is there they can't take it away--I mean my mates--though they do laugh -at my ideas. They call me "the genius," for they don't believe in me, but I -believe in myself, and they laughs best that laughs last.... I don't know,' -he said, looking round him, his eyes full of reverie, 'that the public -liked my fancy landscapes better than the ship on fire, but I said the -public will come to them in time, and I continued my fancy landscapes. But -one day in Trafalgar Square it came on to rain very 'eavy, and I went for -shelter into the National Gallery. It was my fust visit, and I was struck -all of a 'eap, and ever since I can 'ardly bring myself to go on with the -drudgery of the piece of bacon, and the piece of cheese, with the mouse -nibbling at it. And ever since my 'ead 'as been filled with other things, -though for a long time I could not make exactly out what. I 'ave 'eard that -that is always the case with men that 'as an idea--daresay you 'ave found -it so yourself. So in my spare time I goes to the National to think it out, -and in studying the pictures there I got wery interested in a chap called -Hetty, and 'e do paint the female form divine. I says to myself, Why not go -in for lovely woman? the public may not care for fancy landscapes, but the -public allus likes a lovely woman, and, as well as being popular, lovely -woman is 'igh 'art. So, after dinner hour, I sets to work, and sketches in -a blue sea with three bathers, and two boxes, with the 'orse's head looking -out from behind one of the boxes. For a fust attempt at the nude, I assure -you--it ain't my way to blow my own trumpet, but I can say that the crowd -that 'ere picture did draw was bigger than any that 'ad assembled about the -bits o' bacon and ship-a-fire of all the other coves. 'Ad I been let alone, -I should 'ave made my fortune, but the crowd was so big and the curiosity -so great that it took the perlice all their time to keep the pavement from -being blocked. It wasn't that the public didn't like it enough, it was that -the public liked it too much, that was the reason of my misfortune.' - -'What do you mean?' said Hubert. - -'Well, yer see them boys was a-hawking their cheap toys in the -neighbourhood, and when they got wind of my success they comes round to -see, and they remains on account of the crowd. Pockets was picked, I don't -say they wasn't, and the perlice turned rusty, and then a pious old gent -comes along, and 'earing the remarks of them boys, which I admit wasn't -nice, complains to the hauthorities, and I was put down! Now, what I wants -to know is why my art should be made to suffer for the beastly-mindedness -of them 'ere boys.' - -Hubert admitted that there seemed to be an injustice somewhere, and asked -the artist if he had never tried again. - -'Try again? Should think I did. When once a man 'as tasted of 'igh art, he -can't keep his blooming fingers out of it. It was impossible after the -success of my bathers to go back to the bacon, so I thought I would -circumvent the hauthorities. I goes to the National Gallery, makes a -sketch, 'ere it is,' and after some fumbling in his breast pocket, he -produced a greasy piece of paper, which he handed to Hubert. 'S'pose yer -know the picture?' Hubert admitted that he did not. 'Well, that is a -drawing from Gainsborough's celebrated picture of Medora a-washing of her -feet.... But the perlice wouldn't 'ave it any more than my original, 'e -said it was worse than the bathers at Margaret, and when I told the -hignorant brute wot it was, 'e said he wanted no hargument, that 'e -wouldn't 'ave it.' - -Hubert had noticed, during the latter part of the narrative, a look of -dubious cunning twinkling in the pale eyes; but now this look died away, -and the eyes resumed their habitual look of vague reverie. - -'I've been 'ad up before the Beak: from him I expected more enlightenment, -but he, too, said 'e wouldn't 'ave it, and I got a month. But I'll beat -them yet, the public is on my side, and if it worn't for them 'ere boys, -I'd say that the public could be helevated. They calls me "the genius," and -they is right.' Then something seemed to go out like a flame, the face grew -dim, and changed expression. 'It is 'ere all right,' he said, no longer -addressing Hubert, but speaking to himself, 'and since it is there, it must -come out.' - - - - -IV - - -Hubert at last found himself obliged to write to Ford for an advance of -money. But Ford replied that he would advance money only on the delivery of -the completed manuscript. And the whole of one night, in a room hardly -eight feet long, sitting on his bed, he strove to complete the fourth and -fifth acts. But under the pressure of such necessity ideas died within him. -And all through the night, and even when the little window, curtained with -a bit of muslin hardly bigger than a pocket-handkerchief, had grown white -with dawn, he sat gazing at the sheet of paper, his brain on fire, unable -to think. Laying his pen down in despair, he thought of the thousands who -would come to his aid if they only knew--if they only knew! And soon after -he heard life beginning again in the little brick street. He felt that his -brain was giving way, that if he did not find change, whatever it was, he -must surely run raving mad. He had had enough of England, and would leave -it for America, Australia--anywhere. He wanted change. The present was -unendurable. How would he get to America? Perhaps a clerkship on board one -of the great steamships might be obtained. - -The human animal in extreme misery becomes self-reliant, and Hubert hardly -thought of making application to his uncle. The last time he had applied -for help his letter had remained unanswered, and he now felt that he must -make his own living or die. And, quite indifferent as to what might befall -him, he walked next day to the Victoria Docks. He did not know where or how -to apply for work, and he tired himself in fruitless endeavour. At last he -felt he could strive with fate no longer, and wandered mile after mile, -amused and forgetful of his own misery in the spectacle of the river--the -rose sky, the long perspectives, the houses and warehouses showing in fine -outline, and then the wonderful blue night gathering in the forest of masts -and rigging. He was admirably patient. There was no fretfulness in his -soul, nor did he rail against the world's injustice, but took his -misfortunes with sweet gentleness. - -He slept in a public-house, and next day resumed his idle search for -employment. The weather was mild and beautiful, his wants were simple, a -cup of coffee and a roll, a couple of sausages, and the day passed in a -sort of morose and passionless contemplation. He thought of everything and -nothing, least of all of how he should find money for the morrow. When the -day came, and the penny to buy a cup of coffee was wanting, he quite -naturally, without giving it a second thought, engaged himself as a -labourer, and worked all day carrying sacks of grain out of a vessel's -hold. For a large part of his nature was patient and simple, docile as an -animal's. There was in him so much that was rudimentary, that in accepting -this burden of physical toil he was acting not in contradiction to, but in -full and perfect harmony with, his true nature. - -But at the end of a week his health began to give way, and, like a man -after a violent debauch, he thought of returning to a more normal -existence. He had left the manuscript of his unfortunate play in the North. -Had they destroyed it? The involuntary fear of the writer for his child -made him smile. What did it matter? Clearly the first thing to do would be -to write to the editor of _The Cosmopolitan_, and ask if he could find him -some employment, something certain; writing occasional articles for -newspapers, that he couldn't do. - -Hubert had saved twelve shillings. He would therefore be able to pay his -landlady: he smiled--one of his landladies! The earlier debt was now -hopelessly out of his reach, and seemed to represent a social plane from -which he had for ever fallen. If he had succeeded in getting that play -right, what a difference it would have made! He would have been able to do -a number of things he had never done, things which he had always desired to -do. He had desired above all to travel--to see France and Italy; to linger, -to muse in the shadows of the world's past; and after this he had desired -marriage, an English wife, an English home, beautiful children, leisure, -the society of friends. A successful play would have given him all these -things, and now his dream must remain for ever unrealised by him. He had -sunk out of sight and hearing of such life. - -Rose was another; she might sink as he had sunk; she might never find the -opportunity of realising her desire. How well she would have played that -part! He knew what was in her. And now! What did his failure to write that -play condemn him to? Heaven only knows, he did not wish to think. Strange, -was it not strange?... A man of genius--many believed him a genius--and yet -he was incapable of earning his daily bread otherwise than by doing the -work of a navvy. Even that he could not do well, society had softened his -muscles and effeminised his constitution. Indeed, he did not know what life -fate had willed him for. He seemed to be out of place everywhere. His best -chance was to try to obtain a clerkship. The editor of _The Cosmopolitan_ -might be able to do that for him; if he could not, far better it would be -to leave a world in which he was _out of place_, and through no fault of -his own--that was the hard part of it. Hard part! Nonsense! What does Fate -know of our little rights and wrongs--or care? Her intentions are -inscrutable; she watches us come and go, and gives no sign. Prayers are -vain. The good man is punished, and the wicked is sent on his way -rejoicing. - -In such mournful thought, his clothes stained and torn, with all the traces -of a week's toil in the docks upon them, Hubert made his way round St. -Paul's and across Holborn. As he was about to cross into Oxford Street, he -heard some one accost him,-- - -'Oh, Mr. Price, is that you?' It was Rose. 'Where have you been all this -time?' - -She seemed so strange, so small, and so much alone in the great -thoroughfare, that Hubert forgot all his own troubles in a sudden interest -in this little mite. 'Where have you been hiding yourself?... It is lucky I -met you. Don't you know that Ford has decided to revive _Divorce_?' - -'You don't mean it!' - -'Yes; Ford said that the last acts of _The Gipsy_ were not satisfactorily -worked out, and as there was something wrong with that Hamilton Brown's -piece, he has decided to revive _Divorce_. He says it never was properly -played ... he thinks he'll make a hit in the husband's part, and I daresay -he will. But I have been unfortunate again; I wanted the part of the -adventuress. I really could play it. I don't look it, I know ... I have no -weight, but I could play it for all that. The public mightn't see me in it -at first, but in five minutes they would.' - -'And what part has he cast you for--the young girl?' - -'Of course; there's no other part. He says I look it; but what's the good -of looking it when you don't feel it? If he had cast me for Mrs. -Barrington, I should have had just the five minutes in the second act that -I have been waiting for so long, and I should have just wiped Miss Osborne -out, acted her off the stage.... I know I should; you needn't believe it if -don't like, but I know I should.' - -Hubert wondered how any one could feel so sure of herself, and then he -said, 'Yes, I think you could do just what you say.... How do you think -Miss Osborne will play the part?' - -'She'll be correct enough; she'll miss nothing, and yet somehow she'll miss -the whole thing. But you must go at once to Ford. He was saying only this -morning that if you didn't turn up soon, he'd have to give up the idea.' - -'I can't go and see him to-night. You see what a state I'm in.' - -'You're rather dusty; where have you been? what have you been doing?' - -'I've been down at the dock.... I thought of going to America.' - -'Well, we'll talk about that another time. It doesn't matter if you are a -bit dusty and worn-out-looking. Now that he's going to revive your play, -he'll let you have some money. You might get a new hat, though. I don't -know how much they cost, but I've five shillings; can you get one for -that?' - -Hubert thanked her. - -'But you are not offended?' - -'Offended, my dear Rose! I shall be able to manage. I'll get a brush up -somewhere.' - -'That's all right. Now I'm going to jump into that 'bus,' and she signed -with her parasol to the conductor. 'Mind you see Ford to-night,' she cried; -and a moment after he saw a small space of blue back seated against one of -the windows. - - - - -V - - -There was much prophecy abroad. Stiggins' words, 'The piece never did, and -never will draw money,' were evidently present in everybody's mind. They -were visible in Ford's face, and more than once Hubert expected to hear -that--on account of severe indisposition--Mr. Montague Ford has been -obliged to indefinitely postpone his contemplated revival of Mr. Hubert -Price's play _Divorce_. But, besides the apprehension that Stiggins' -unfavourable opinion of his enterprise had engendered in him, Ford was -obviously provoked by Hubert's reluctance to execute the alterations he had -suggested. Night after night, sometimes until six in the morning, Hubert -sat up considering them. Thanks to Ford's timely advance he was back in his -old rooms in Fitzroy Street. All was as it had been. He was working at his -play every evening, waiting for Rose's footsteps on the stairs. And yet a -change had come into his life! He believed now that his feet were set on -the way to fortune--that he would soon be happy. - -He stared at the bright flame of the lamp, he listened to the silence. The -clock chimed sharply, and the windows were growing grey. Hubert had begun -to drowse in his chair; but he had promised to rewrite the young girl's -part, Ford having definitely refused to intrust Rose with the part of the -adventuress. He was sorry for this. He believed that Rose had not only -talent, but genius. Besides, they were friends, neighbours; he would like -to give her a chance of distinguishing herself--the chance which she was -seeking. All the time he could not but realise that, however he might -accentuate and characterise the part of the sentimental girl, Rose would -not be able to do much with it. To bring out her special powers something -strange, wild, or tragic was required. But of what use thinking of what was -not to be? Having made some alterations and additions he folded his papers -up, and addressed them to Miss Massey. He wrote on a piece of paper that -they were to be given to her at once, and that he was to be called at ten. -There was a rehearsal at twelve. - -On the night of the first performance, Hubert asked Rose to dine in his -rooms. Mr. Wilson proposed that they should have a roast chicken, and Annie -was sent to fetch a bottle of champagne from the grocer's. Annie had been -given a ticket for the pit. Mrs. Wilson was going to the upper boxes. Annie -said,-- - -'Why, you look as if you was going to a funeral, and not to a play. Why -don't ye laugh?' - -In truth, Hubert and Rose were a little silent. Rose was thinking how she -could say certain lines. She had said them right once at rehearsal, but had -not since been able to reproduce to her satisfaction a certain effect of -voice. Hubert was too nervous to talk. There was nothing in his mind but -'Will the piece succeed? What shall I do if it fails?' He could give heed -to nothing but himself, all the world seemed blotted out, and he suffered -the pain of excessive self-concentration. Rose, on the other hand, had lost -sight of herself, and existed almost unconsciously in the soul of another -being. She was sometimes like a hypnotised spectator watching with foolish, -involuntary curiosity the actions of one whom she had been bidden to watch. -Then a little cloud would gather over her eyes, and then this other being -would rise as if out of her very entrails and recreate her, fashioning her -to its own image and likeness. - -She did not answer when she was spoken to, and when the question was -repeated, she awoke with a little start. Dinner was eaten in morbid -silence, with painful and fitful efforts to appear interested in each -other. Walking to the theatre, they once took the wrong turning and had to -ask the way. At the stage door they smiled painfully, nodded, glad to part. -Hubert went up to Montague Ford's room. He found the comedian on a low -stool, seated before a low table covered with brushes and cosmetics, in -front of a triple glass. - -'My dear friend, do not trouble me now. I am thinking of my part.' - -Hubert turned to go. - -'Stay a moment,' cried the actor. 'You know when the husband meets the wife -he has divorced?' - -Hubert remembered the moment referred to, and, with anxious, doubting eyes, -the comedian sought from the author justification for some intonations and -gestures which seemed to him to form part and parcel of the nature of the -man whose drunkenness he had so admirably depicted on his face. - -'"_This is most unfortunate, very unlucky--very, my dear Louisa; but----_" - -'"_I am no longer obliged to bear with your insults; I can now defend -myself against you._" - -[Illustration: "In the third row Harding stood talking to a young man."] - -'Now, is that your idea of the scene?' - -A pained look came upon Hubert's face. 'Don't question me now, my dear -fellow. I cannot fix my attention. I can see, however, that your make-up is -capital--you are the man himself.' - -The actor was satisfied, and in his satisfaction he said, 'I think it will -be all right, old chap.' - -Hubert hoped to reach his box without meeting critics or authors. The -serving-maids bowed and smiled,--he was the author of the play. 'They'll -think still more of me if the notices are right,' he thought, as he hurried -upstairs, and from behind the curtain of his box he peeped down and counted -the critics who edged their way down the stalls. Harding stood in the third -row talking to a young man. He said, 'You mean the woman with the black -hair piled into a point, and fastened with a steel circlet. A face of -sheep-like sensuality. Red lips and a round receding chin. A large bosom, -and two thin arms showing beneath the opera cloak, which she has not yet -thrown from her shoulders. I do not know her--_une laideur attirante_. Many -a man might be interested in her. But do you see the woman in the -stage-box? You would not believe it, but she is sixty, and has only just -begun to speak of herself as an old woman. She kept her figure, and had an -admirer when she was fifty-eight.' - -'What has become of him?' - -'They quarrelled; two years ago he told her he hoped never to see her ugly -old face again. And that delicate little creature in the box next to -her--that pale diaphanous face?' - -'With a young man hanging over her whispering in her ear?' - -'Yes. She hates the theatre; it gives her neuralgia; but she attends all -the first nights because her one passion is to be made love to in public. -If her admirer did not hang over her in front of the box just as that man -is doing, she would not tolerate him for a week.' - -At that moment the conversation was interrupted by a new-comer, who asked -if he had seen the play when it was first produced. - -'Yes,' said Harding; 'I did.' And he continued his search for acquaintances -amid white rows of female backs, necks, and half-seen profiles--amid the -black cloth shoulders cut sharply upon the illumined curtain. - -'And what do you think of it? Do you think it will succeed this time?' - -'Ford will create an impression in the part; but I don't think the piece -will run.' - -'And why? Because the public is too stupid?' - -'Partly, and partly because Price is only an intentionist. He cannot carry -an idea quite through.' - -'Are you going to write about it?' - -'I may.' - -'And what will you say?' - -'Oh, most interesting things to be said. Let's take the case of Hubert -Price ... Ah, there, the curtain is going up.' - -The curtain rolled slowly up, and in a small country drawing-room, in very -simple but very pointedly written dialogue, the story of Mrs. Holmes' -domestic misfortunes was gradually unfolded. It appeared that she had -flirted with Captain Grey; he had written her some compromising letters, -and she had once been to his rooms alone. So the Court had pronounced a -decree _nisi_. But Mrs. Holmes had not been unfaithful to her husband. She -had flirted with Captain Grey because her husband's attentions to a certain -Mrs. Barrington had maddened her, and in her jealous rage had written -foolish letters, and been to see Captain Grey. - -Hubert noticed that folk were still asking for their seats, and pushing -down the very rows in which the most influential critics were sitting. They -exchanged a salutation with their friends in the dress-circle, and, when -they were seated, looked around, making observations regarding the -appearance of the house; and all the while the actors were speaking. Hubert -trembled with fear and rage. Would these people never give their attention -to the stage? If they had been sitting by him, he could have struck them. -Then a line turned into nonsense by the actress who played Mrs. Holmes was -a lancinating pain; and the actor who played Captain Grey, played so slowly -that Hubert could hardly refrain from calling from his box. He looked round -the theatre, noticing the indifferent faces of the critics, and the women's -shoulders seemed to him especially vacuous and imbecile. - -The principal scene of the second act was between Mrs. Holmes and the man -who had divorced her. He has-been driven to drink by the vile behaviour of -his second wife; he is ruined in health and in pocket, and has come to the -woman he wronged to beg forgiveness; he knows she has learnt to love -Captain Grey, but will not marry him, because she believes that once -married always married. There is only one thing he can do to repair the -wrong he has done--he will commit suicide, and so enable her to marry the -man she loves. He tells her that he has bought the pistol to do it with, -and the words, 'Not here! not here!' escape from her; and he answers, 'No, -not here, but in a cab. I've got one at the door.' He goes out; Captain -Grey enters, and Mrs. Holmes begs him to save her husband. While they are -discussing how this is to be done, he re-enters, saying that his conscience -smote him as he was going to pull the trigger. Will she forgive him? If she -won't, he must make an end of himself. She says she will. - -In the third act Hubert had attempted to paint Mr. Holmes' vain efforts to -reform his life. But the constant presence of Captain Grey in the -household, his attempts to win Mrs. Holmes from her husband, and the -drunken husband's amours with the servant-maid disgusted rather than -horrified. In the fourth act the wretched husband admits that his -reformation is impossible, and that, although he has no courage to commit -suicide and set his wife free, he will return to his evil courses; they -will sooner or later make an end of him. The slowness and deadly gravity -with which Ford took this scene rendered it intolerable; and, -notwithstanding the beauty of the conclusion, when the deserted wife, in -the silence of her drawing-room, reads again Captain Grey's letter, telling -her that he has left England for ever, and with another, the success of the -play was left in doubt, and the audience filed out, talking, chattering, -arguing, wondering what the public verdict would be. - -To avoid commiseration of heartless friends and the triumphant glances of -literary enemies, Hubert passed through the door leading on to the stage. -Scene-shifters were brutally pushing away what remained of his play; and -the presence of Hamilton Brown, the dramatic author, talking to Ford, was -at that moment particularly disagreeable. On catching sight of Hubert, -Brown ran to him, shook him by the hand, and murmured some discreet -congratulations. He preferred the piece, however, as it had been originally -written, and suggested to Ford the advisability of returning to the first -text. Then Ford went upstairs to take his paint off, and Hubert walked -about the stage with Brown. Brown's insincerity was sufficiently -transparent; but men in Hubert's position catch at straws, and he soon -began to believe that the attitude of the public towards his play was not -so unfavourable as he had imagined. - -Hubert tried to summon up a smile for the stage-door keeper, who, he -feared, had heard that the piece had failed, and then the moment they got -outside he begged Rose to tell him the exact truth. She assured him that -Ford had said that he had always counted on a certain amount of opposition; -but that he believed that the general public, being more free of prejudice -and less sophisticated, would be impressed by the simple humanity of the -play. The conversation paused, and at the end of an irritating silence he -said, 'You were excellent, as good as any one could be in a part that did -not suit them. Ah, if he had cast you for the adventuress, how you would -have played it!...' - -'I'm so glad you are pleased. I hope my notices will be good. Do you think -they will?' - -'Yes, your notices will be all right,' he answered, with a sigh. - -'And your notices will be all right too. No one can say what is going to -succeed. There was a call after each of the last three acts.... I don't see -how a piece could go better. It is the suspense....' - -'Ah, yes, the suspense!' - -They lingered on the landing, and Hubert said, 'Won't you come in for a -moment?' She followed him into the room. His calm face, usually a perfect -picture of repose and self-possession, betrayed his emotion by a certain -blankness in the eyes, certain contractions in the skin of the forehead. -'I'm afraid,' he said, 'there's no hope.' - -'Oh, you mustn't say that!' she replied. 'I think it went very well -indeed.... I know I did nothing with the young girl. I oughtn't to have -undertaken the part.' - -'You were excellent. If we only get some good notices. If we don't, I shall -never get another play of mine acted.' He looked at her imploringly, -thirsting for a woman's sympathy. But the little girl was thinking of -certain effects which she would have made, and which the actress who had -played the adventuress had failed to make. - -'I watched her all the time,' she said, 'following every line, saying all -the time, "Oh yes, that's all very nice and very proper, my young woman; -but it's not it; no, not at all--not within a hundred miles of it." I don't -think she ever really touched the part--do you?' Hubert did not answer, and -a quiver of distraction ran through the muscles of her face. - -'Why don't you answer me?' - -'I can't answer you,' he said abruptly. Then remembering, he added, -'Forgive me; I can think of nothing now.' He hid his face in his hands, and -sobbed twice--two heavy, choking sobs, pregnant with the weight of anguish -lying on his heart. - -Seeing how much he suffered, she laid her hand on his shoulder. 'I am very -sorry; I wish I could help you. I know how it tears the heart when one -cannot get out what one has in one's brain.' - -Her artistic appreciation of his suffering only jarred him the more. What -he longed for was some kind, simple-hearted woman who would say, 'Never -mind, dear; the play was perfectly right, only they did not understand it; -I love you better than ever.' But Rose could not give him the sympathy he -wanted; and to be alone was almost a relief. He dared not go to bed; he sat -looking into space. The roar of London hushed till it was no more than a -faint murmur, the hissing of the gas grew louder, and still Hubert sat -thinking, the same thoughts battling in his brain. He looked into the -future, but could see nothing but suicide. His uncle? He had applied to him -before for help; there was no hope there. Then he tramped up and down, -maddened by the infernal hissing of the gas; and then threw himself into -his arm-chair. And so a terrible night wore away; and it was not until long -after the early carts had begun to rattle in the streets that exhaustion -brought an end to his sufferings, and he rolled into bed. - - - - -VI - - -'What will ye 'ave to eat? Eggs and bacon?' - -'No, no!' - -'Well, then, 'ave a chop?' - -'No, no!' - -'Ye must 'ave something.' - -'A cup of tea, a slice of toast. I'm not hungry.' - -'Well, ye are worse than a young lady for a happetite. Miss Massey 'as sent -you down these 'ere papers.' - -The servant-girl laid the papers on the bed, and Hubert lay back on his -pillow, so that he might collect his thoughts. Stretching forth his hands, -he selected the inevitable paper. - -'For those who do not believe that our English home life is composed -mainly, if not entirely, of lying, drunkenness, and conjugal infidelity, -and its sequel divorce, yester evening at the Queen's Theatre must have -been a sad and dismal experience. That men and women who have vowed to love -each other do sometimes prove false to their troth no reasonable man will -deny. With the divorce court before our eyes, even the most enthusiastic -believer in the natural goodness and ultimate perfectibility of human -nature must admit that men and women are frail. But drunkenness and -infidelity are happily not characteristic of our English homes. Then why, -we ask, should a dramatist select such a theme, and by every artifice of -dialogue force into prominence all that is mean and painful in an -unfortunate woman's life? Always the same relentless method; the cold, -passionless curiosity of the vivisector; the scalpel is placed under the -nerve, and we are called upon to watch the quivering flesh. Never the kind -word, the tears, the effusion, which is man's highest prerogative, and -which separates him from the brute and signifies the immortal end for which -he was created. We hold that it is a pity to see so much talent wasted, and -it was indeed a melancholy sight to see so many capable actors and -actresses labouring to----' - -'This is even worse than usual,' said Hubert; and glancing through half a -column of hysterical commonplace, he came upon the following:-- - -'But if this woman had succeeded in reclaiming from vice the man who -unjustly divorced her, and who in his misery goes back to ask her -forgiveness for pity's sake, what a lesson we should have had! And, with -lightened and not with heavier hearts, we should have left the theatre -comforted, better and happier men and women. But turning his back on the -goodness, truth, and love whither he had induced us to believe he was -leading us, the author flagrantly makes the woman contradict her whole -nature in the last act; and, because her husband falls again, she, instead -of raising him with all the tender mercies and humanities of wifehood, -declares that her life has been one long mistake, and that she accepts the -divorce which the Court had unjustly granted. The moral, if such a word may -be applied to such a piece is this: "The law may be bad, but human nature -is worse."' - -The other morning papers took the same view,--a great deal of talent wasted -on a subject that could please no one. Hubert threw the papers aside, lay -back, and in the lucid idleness of the bed his thoughts grew darker. It was -hardly possible that the piece could survive such notices; and if it did -not? Well, he would have to go. But until the piece was taken out of the -bills it would be a weakness to harbour the ugly thought. - -There were, however, the evening papers to look forward to, and soon after -midday Annie was sent to buy all that had appeared. Hubert expected to find -in these papers a more delicate appreciation of his work. Many of the -critics of the evening press were his personal friends, and nearly all were -young men in full sympathy with the new school of dramatic thought. He read -paper after paper with avidity; and Annie was sent in a cab to buy one that -had not yet found its way so far north as Fitzroy Street. The opinion of -this paper was of all importance, and Hubert tore it open with trembling -fingers. Although more temperately written than the others, it was clearly -favourable, and Hubert sighed a sweet sigh of relief. A weight was lifted -from him; the world suddenly seemed to grow brighter; and he went to the -theatre that evening, and, half doubting and half confidently, presented -himself at the door of Montague Ford's dressing-room. The actor had not yet -begun to dress, and was busy writing letters. He stretched his hand -hurriedly to Hubert. - -'Excuse me, my dear fellow; I have a couple of letters to finish.' - -Hubert sat down, glancing nervously from the actor to the morning papers -with which the table was strewn. There was not an evening paper there. Had -he not seen them? At the end of about ten minutes the actor said,-- - -'Well, this is a bad business; they are terribly down on us--aren't they? -What do you think?' - -'Have you seen the evening papers--_The Telephone_, for instance?' - -'Oh yes, I've seen them all; but the evening papers don't amount to much. -Stiggins's article was terrible. I am afraid he has killed the piece.' - -'Don't you think it will run, then?' - -'Well, that depends upon the public, of course. If they like it, I'll keep -it on.' - -'How's the booking?' - -'Not good.' Montague Ford moved his papers absent-mindedly. At the end of a -long silence he said, 'Even if the piece did catch on, it would take a lot -of working up to undo the mischief of those articles. Of course you can -rely on me to give it every chance. I shan't take it out of the bills if I -can possibly help.' - -'There is my _Gipsy_.' - -'I have another piece ready to put into rehearsal; it was arranged for six -months ago. I only consented to produce your play because--well, because -there has been such an outcry lately about art.... Tremendous part for me -in the new piece... I'm sure you'll like it.' - -The business did improve, but so very slowly that Hubert was afraid Ford -would lose patience and take the play out of the bills. But while the fate -of the play hung in the balance, Hubert's life was being rendered -unbearable by duns. They had found him out, one and all; to escape being -served was an impossibility; and now his table was covered with summonses -to appear at the County Court. This would not matter if the piece once took -the public taste. Then he would be able to pay every one, and have some -time to rest and think. And there seemed every prospect of its catching on. -Discussions regarding the morality of the play had arisen in the -newspapers, and the eternal question whether men and women are happier -married or unmarried had reached its height. Hubert spent the afternoon -addressing letters to the papers, striving to fan the flame of controversy. -Every evening he listened for Rose's footstep on the stairs.--How did the -piece go?--Was there a better house? Money or paper?--Have you seen the -notice in the ----?--First-rate, wasn't it?--That ought to do some -good.--I've heard there was a notice in the ----, but I haven't seen it. -Have you?--No; but So-and-so saw the paper, and said there was nothing in -it. And, do you know, I hear there's going to be a notice in _The Modern -Review_, and that So-and-so is writing it. - -Every post brought newspapers; the room was filled with newspapers--all -kinds of newspapers--papers one has never heard of,--French papers, Welsh -papers, North of England papers, Scotch and Irish papers. Hubert read -columns about himself, anecdotes of all kinds,--where he was born, who were -his parents, and what first induced him to attempt writing for the stage; -his personal appearance, mode of life, the cut of his clothes; his -religious, moral, and political views. Had he been the plaintiff in an -action for criminal libel, greater industry in the collection and the -fabrication of personal details could hardly have been displayed. - -But at these articles Hubert only glanced; he was interested in his piece, -not in himself, and when Annie brought up _The Modern Review_ he tore it -open, knowing he would find there criticism more fundamental, more -searching. But as he read, the expression of hope which his face wore -changed to one of pain pitiful to look upon. The article began with a -sketch of the general situation, and in a tone of commiseration, of -benevolent malice, the writer pointed out how inevitable it was that the -critics should have taken Mr. Price, when _Divorce_ was first produced, for -the new dramatic genius they were waiting for. 'There comes a moment,' said -this caustic writer, 'in the affairs of men when the new is not only -eagerly accepted, but when it is confounded with the original. Wearied by -the old stereotyped form of drama, the critics had been astonished by a -novelty of subject, more apparent than real, and by certain surface -qualities in the execution; they had hailed the work as being original both -in form and in matter, whereas all that was good in the play had been -borrowed from France and Scandinavia. _Divorce_ was the inevitable product -of the time. It had been written by Mr. Price, but it might have been -written by a dozen other young men--granting intelligence, youth, leisure, -a university education, and three or four years of London life--any one of -a dozen clever young men who frequent West End drawing-rooms and dabble in -literature might have written it. All that could be said was that the play -was, or rather had been, _dans le mouvement_; and original work never is -_dans le mouvement_. _Divorce_ was nothing more than the product of certain -surroundings, and remembering Mr. Price's other plays, there seemed to be -no reason to believe that he would do better. Mr. Price had tried his hand -at criticism, and that was a sure sign that the creative faculty had begun -to wither. His critical essays were not rich nor abundant in thought, they -were not the skirmishing of a man fighting for his ideas, they were not -preliminary to a great battle; they were at once vague and pedantic, -somewhat futile, _les ébats d'un esprit en peine_, and seemed to announce -a talent in progress of disintegration rather than of reconstruction. - -'Sometimes the critic's phrases seemed wet with tears; sometimes, -abandoning his tone of commiseration, he would assume one of scientific -indifference. The phenomenon was the commonest. There were dozens of Hubert -Prices in London. The universities and the newspapers, working singly and -in collaboration, turned them out by the dozen. And the mission of these -men of intelligent culture seemed to be to _poser des lapins sur la jeune -presse_. Each one came in turn with his little volume of poems, his little -play, his little picture; all were men of "advanced ideas"; in other words, -they were all _dans le mouvement_. There was the rough Hubert Price, who -made mild consternation in the drawing-room, and there was the -sophisticated Hubert Price, who cajoled the drawing-room; there was the -sincere and the insincere, and the Price that suffered and the Price that -didn't. Each one brought a different _nuance_, a thousand infinitesimal -variations of the type, but, considered merely in its relation to art, the -species may be said to be divided into two distinct categories. In the -first category are those who rise almost at the first bound to a certain -level, who produce quickly, never reaching again the original standard, -dropping a little lower at each successive effort until their work becomes -indistinguishable from the ordinary artistic commercialism of the time. The -fate of those in the second category is more pathetic; they gradually -wither and die away like flowers planted in a thin soil. Among these men -many noble souls are to be found, men who have surrendered all things for -love of their art, and who seemed at starting to be the best equipped to -win, but who failed, impossible to tell how or why. Sometimes their failure -turns to comedy, sometimes to tragedy. They may become refined, delicate, -elderly bachelors, the ornaments of drawing-rooms, professional -diners-out--men with brilliant careers behind them. But if fate has not -willed that they should retire into brilliant shells; if chance does not -allow them to retreat, to separate themselves from their kind, but -arbitrarily joins them to others, linking their fate to the fate of others' -unhappiness, disaster may and must accrue from the alliance; honesty of -purpose, trueness of heart, deep love, every great, good, and gracious -quality to be found in nature, will not suffice to save them.' - -The paper dropped from his hands, and he recollected all his failures. - -'Once I could do good work; now I can do neither good work nor bad. Were I -a rich man, I should collect my scattered papers and write songs to be sung -in drawing-rooms; but being a poor one, I must--I suppose I must get out. -Positively, there is no hope,--debts on every side. Fate has willed me to -go as went Haydon, Gerard de Nerval, and Maréchal. The first cut his -throat, the second hanged himself, and the third blew out his brains. -Clearly the time has come to consider how I shall make my exit. It is a -little startling to be called upon so peremptorily to go.' - -In this moment of extreme dejection it seemed to Hubert that the writer of -the article had told him the exact truth. He refused to admit the plea of -poverty. It was of course hard to write when one is being harassed by -creditors. But if he had had it in him, it would have come out. The critic -had very probably told him the truth. He could not hope to make a living -out of literature. He had not the strength to write the masterpiece which -the perverse cruelty of nature had permitted him only to see, and he was -hopelessly unfit for journalism. But in his simple, wholesome mind there -was no bent towards suicide; and he scanned every horizon. Once again he -thought of his uncle. Five years ago he had written, asking him for the -loan of a hundred pounds. He had received ten. And how vain it would be to -write a second time! A few pounds would only serve to prolong his misery. -No; he would not drift from degradation to degradation. - -He only glanced at the letter which Annie had brought up with the copy of -_The Modern Review_. It was clearly a lawyer's letter. Should he open it? -Why not spare himself the pain? He could alter nothing; and in these last -days---- Leaving the thought unfinished, he sought for his keys; he went to -his box, unlocked it, and took out a small paper package. Of the fifty -pounds he had received from Ford about twenty remained: he had been poorer -before, but hardly quite so hopeless. He scanned every horizon--all were -barred. The thought of suicide, and with it the instinctive shrinking from -it, came into his mind again. Suppose he took, that very night, an overdose -of chloral? He tried to put the thought from him, and returned, a little -dazed and helpless, to his chair. Had the critic in _The Modern Review_ -told him the truth? Was he incapable of earning a living? It seemed so. -Above all, was he incapable of finishing _The Gipsy_ as he intended? No; -that he felt was a lie. Give him six months' quiet, free from worry and all -anxiety, and he would do it. Many a year had passed since he had enjoyed a -month of quiet; and glancing again at the letter on the table, he thought -that perhaps at that very moment a score of gallery boys were hissing his -play. Perhaps at that very moment Ford was making up his mind to announce -the last six nights of _Divorce_. At a quarter to twelve he heard Rose's -foot on the stairs. He opened the door. - -'How did the piece go to-night?' - -'Pretty well.' - -'Only pretty well? Won't you come in for a few minutes?... So the piece -didn't go very well to-night?' - -'Oh yes, it did. I've seen it go better; but----' - -'Did you get a call?' - -'Yes, after the second act.' - -'Not after the third?' - -'No. That act never goes well. Harding came behind; I was speaking to him, -and he said something which struck me as being very true. Ford, he said, -plays the part a great deal too seriously. When the piece was first -produced, it was played more good-humouredly by indifferent actors, who let -the thing run without trying to bring out every point. Ford makes it as -hard as nails. I think those were his exact words.' - -Hubert did not answer. At the end of a long silence he said,-- - -'Did you hear anything about the last night's?' - -'No,' she said; 'I heard nothing of that.' - -'Ford appeared quite satisfied then?' - -'Yes, quite,' she answered, with difficulty; for his eyes were fixed on -her, and she felt he knew she was not telling the truth. The conversation -paused again, and to turn it into another channel she said, 'Why, you have -not opened your letter!' - -'I can see it is a lawyer's letter, on account of some unpaid bill. If I -could pay it, I would; but as I can't----' - -'You are afraid to open it,' said Rose. - -Ashamed of his weakness, Hubert opened the letter, and began to read. Rose -saw that the letter was not such an one as he had expected, and a moment -after his face told her that fortunate news had come to him. The signs of -the tumult within were represented by the passing of the hand across the -brow, as if to brush aside some strange hallucination, and the sudden -coming of a vague look of surprise and fear into the eyes. He said,-- - -'Read it! Read it!' - -Relieved of much detail and much cumbersome legal circumlocution, it was to -the following effect:--That about three months ago Mr. Burnett had come up -from his place in Sussex, and at the offices of Messrs. Grandly & Co. had -made a will, in which he had disinherited his adopted daughter, Miss Emily -Watson, and left everything to Mr. Hubert Price. There was no question as -to the validity of the will; but Messrs. Grandly deemed it their duty to -inform Mr. Hubert Price of the circumstances under which it had been made, -and also of the fact that a few weeks before his death Mr. Burnett had told -Mr. John Grandly, who was then staying with Mr. Burnett at Ashwood, that he -intended adding a codicil, leaving some two or three hundred a year to Miss -Watson. It was unfortunate that Mr. Burnett had not had time to do this; -for Miss Watson was an orphan, eighteen years of age, and entirely -unprovided for. Messrs. Grandly begged to submit these facts to the -consideration of Mr. Hubert Price. Miss Watson was now residing at Ashwood. -She was there with a friend of hers, Mrs. Bentley; and should Mr. Hubert -Price feel inclined to do what Mr. Burnett had left undone, Messrs. Grandly -would have very great pleasure in carrying his wishes into effect. - -'I'm not dreaming, am I?' - -'No, you are not. It is quite true. Your uncle has left his money to you. I -am so glad; indeed I am. You will be able to finish your play, and take a -theatre and produce it yourself if you like. I hope you won't forget me. I -do want to play that part. You can't quite know what I shall do with it. -One can't explain oneself in a scene here and there.... What are you -thinking of?' - -'I'm thinking of that poor girl, Emily Watson. It comes very hard upon -her.' - -'Who is she?' - -'The girl my uncle disinherited.' - -'Oh, she! Well, you can marry her if you like. That would not be a bad -notion. But if you do, you'll forget all about me and Lady Hayward.' - -'No; I shall never forget you, Rose.' He stretched his hand to her; but, -irrespective of his will, the gesture seemed full of farewell. - -'I'm so much obliged to you,' he said; 'had it not been for you, I might -never have opened that letter.' - -'Even if you hadn't, it wouldn't have mattered; you would have heard of -your good fortune some other way. But it is getting very late. I must say -good-night. I hope you will have a pleasant time in the country, and will -finish your play. Good-night.' - -Returning from the door, he stopped to think. 'We have been very good -friends--that is all. How strangely determined she is!... More so than I -am. She is bound to succeed. There is in her just that note of individual -passion.... Perhaps some one will find her out before I have -finished,--that would be a pity. I wonder which of us will succeed first?' - -Then the madness of good fortune came upon him suddenly; he could think no -more of Rose, and had to go for a long walk in the streets. - - - - -VII - - -'Dearest Emily, you must prepare yourself for the worst.' - -'Is he dead?' - -'Yes; he passed away quite quietly. To look at him one would say he was -asleep; he does not appear to have suffered at all.' - -'Oh, Julia, Julia, do you think he forgave me? I could not do what he asked -me.... I loved him very dearly as a father, but I could not have married -him.' - -'No, dear, you could not. Such a marriage would have been most unnatural; -he was more than forty years older than you.' - -'I do not think he ever thought of such a thing until about a month or six -weeks ago. You remember how I ran to you? I was as white as a ghost, and I -trembled like a leaf. I could hardly speak.... You remember?' - -'Yes, I remember; and some hours after, when I came into this room, he was -standing there, just there, on the hearth-rug; there was a fearful look of -pain and despair on his face--he looked as if he was going mad. I never saw -such a look before, and I never wish to see such a look again. And the -effort he made to appear unconcerned when he saw me was perhaps the worst -part of it. I pretended to see nothing, and walked away towards the window -and looked out. But all the while I could feel that some terrible drama was -passing behind me. At last I had to look round. He was sitting in that -chair, his elbows on his knees, clasping his head with both hands, the old, -gnarled fingers twined in the iron-grey hair. Then, unable to contain -himself any longer, he rushed out of the room, out of the house, and across -the park.' - -'You say that he passed away quietly; he did not seem to suffer at all?' - -'No, he never recovered consciousness.' - -'But do you think that my refusal to marry him had anything to do with his -death?' - -'Oh no, Emily; a fit of apoplexy, with a man of his age, generally ends -fatally.' - -'Even if I had known it all beforehand I don't think I could have acted -differently. I could not have married him. Indeed I couldn't, Julia, not -even if I knew I should save his life by doing so. I daresay it is very -wicked of me, but----' - -'Dearest Emily, you must not give way to such thoughts; you did quite right -in refusing to marry Mr. Burnett. It was very wrong of him even to think of -asking you, and if he had lived he would have seen how wrong it was of him -to desire such a thing.' - -'If he had lived! But then he didn't live, not even long enough to forgive -me, and when we think of how much he suffered--I don't mean in dying, you -say he passed away quietly, but all this last month how heart-broken he -looked! You remember when he sat at the head of the table, never speaking -to us, and how frightened I was lest I should meet him on the stairs; I -used to stand at the door of my room, afraid to move. I know he suffered, -poor old man. I was very, very sorry for him. Indeed I was, Julia, for I'm -not selfish, and when I think now that he died without forgiving me, I -feel, I feel--oh, I feel as if I should like to die myself. Why do such -things happen to me? I feel just as miserable now as I used to when I lived -with father and mother, who could not agree. I have often told you how -miserable I was then, but I don't think you ever quite understood. I feel -just the same now, just as if I never wanted to see any one or anything -again. I was so unhappy when I was a child, they thought I would die, and I -should have died if I had remained listening to father and mother any -longer. ... Every one thought I was so lucky when Mr. Burnett decided to -adopt me and leave me all his money, and he has done that, poor old man, so -I suppose I should be happy; but I'm not.' - -The girl's eyes turned instinctively towards the window and rested for a -moment on the fair, green prospects of the park. - -'I hated to listen to father and mother quarrelling, but I loved them, and -I had not been here a year before father died, and darling mother was not -long following him--only six months. Then I had no one: a few distant -relatives, whom I knew nothing of, whom I did not care for, so I gave all -my love to Mr. Burnett. He was so good to me; he never denied me anything; -he gave me everything, even you, dearest Julia. When he thought I wanted a -companion, he found you for me. I learnt to love you. You became my best -and dearest friend. Then things seemed to brighten up, and I thought I was -happy, when all this dreadful trouble came upon us. Don't let's speak of it -more than we can help. I often wished myself dead. Didn't you, Julia?' - -Emily Watson told the story of her misfortunes in a low, musical voice, -heedless of two or three interruptions, hardly conscious of her listener, -impressed and interested by the fatality of circumstances which she -believed in design against her. She was a small, slender girl of about -eighteen. Her abundant chestnut hair--exquisite, soft, and silky--was -looped picturesquely, and fastened with a thin tortoiseshell comb. The tiny -mouth trembled, and the large, prominent eyes reflected a strange, yearning -soul. She was dressed in white muslin, and the fantastically small waist -was confined with a white band. Her friend and companion, Julia Bentley, -was a woman of about thirty, well above the medium height, full-bosomed and -small-waisted. The type was Anglo-Saxon even to commonplace. The face was -long, with a look of instinctive kindness upon it. She was given to -staring, and as she looked at Emily, her blue eyes filled with an -expression which told of a nature at once affectionate and intelligent. She -was dressed in yellow linen, and wore a gold bracelet on a well-turned arm. - -The room was a long, old-fashioned drawing-room. It had three windows, and -all three were filled with views of the park, now growing pale in the -evening air. The flower-gardens were drawn symmetrically about the house -and were set with blue flower-vases in which there were red geraniums. It -was a very large room, nearly forty feet long, with old portraits on the -walls--ugly things and ill done; and where there were no portraits the -walls were decorated with vine leaves and mountains. The parqueted floor -was partially covered with skins, and the furniture seemed to have known -many a generation; some of it was heavy and cumbersome, some of it was -modern. There was a grand piano, and above it two full-length portraits--a -lady in a blue dress and a man in black velvet knee-breeches. At the end of -a long silence, Emily suddenly threw herself weeping into Julia's arms. - -'Oh, you are my only friend; you will not leave me now.... We shall always -love one another, shall we not? If anything ever came between us it would -kill me.... That poor old man lying dead up-stairs! He loved me very -dearly, and I loved him, too. Yet I said just now I could not have married -him even if I had known it would save his life. I was wrong; yes, I would -have married him if I had known.... You don't believe me?' - -'My dearest girl, you must try to forget that Mr. Burnett ever entertained -so foolish a thought. He was a very good man, and loved you for a long time -as he should have loved you--as a daughter. We shall respect his memory -best by forgetting the events of the last six weeks. And now, Emily, dinner -will be ready at seven o'clock, and it is now six. What are you going to -do?' - -'I shall go out for a little walk. I shall go down and see the swans.' - -'Shall I come with you?' - -'No, thank you, dear; I think I'd sooner be alone. I want to think.' - -Julia looked a moment anxiously at this fragile girl, whose tiny head was -poised on a long, delicate neck like a fruit on its stem. - -'Yes, go for a walk, dear,' said Julia; 'it will do you good. Shall I go -and fetch your hat and jacket?' - -'No, thank you, I will not trouble you; I'll go myself.' - -'No, Emily, I think you had better let me go.' - -'Oh, no; I am not afraid.' - -And she went up the wide oak staircase, thinking of the man who lay dead in -the room at the end of the passage. She was conscious of a sense of dread; -the house seemed to wear a strange air, and her dog, Dandy, was conscious -of it, too; he was more silent, less joyful than usual. And when she came -from her room, dressed to go out, instead of rushing down-stairs, barking -with joy, he dropped his tail and lingered at the end of the passage. She -called him; he still hesitated, and then, yielding to a sudden desire, she -went down the passage and knocked at the door of the room. The nurse -answered her knock. - -'Oh, don't come in, miss.' - -'Why not? I want to see him before he goes away for ever.' - -Upon the limp, white curtains of an old four-posted bed she saw the -memorable profile--stern, unrelenting. How still he lay! Never would that -face speak or laugh or see again. Although sixty-five, his head was covered -with short, thick, iron-grey hair; the beard, too, was short and thick, and -iron-grey. The face was rugged, and when Emily touched the coarse hand, -telling of a life of toil, she started--it was singularly cold. Fear and -sorrow in like measure choked her, and her soul awoke, and tremblingly she -walked out of the house, glad to breathe the sweet evening air. - -She walked towards the artificial water. The sky was melancholy and grey, -and the park lay before her, hushed and soundless. Through the shadows of -the darkening island two swans floated softly, leaving behind slight silver -lines; above, the swallows flew high in the evening. There was sensation of -death, too, in this cold, mournful water, and in the silence that hung -about it, and in some vague way it reminded Emily of her own life. She had -known little else but death; her life seemed full of death; and those -reflections, so distinct and so colourless, were like death. - -Then, in a sudden expansion of youth she wondered. Her own life, how -strange, how personal, how intense! What did it mean, what meaning had it -in the great, wide world? And the impressive tranquillity, the pale death -of the day, lying like a flower on the water, seemed to symbolise her -thought, and she felt more distinctly than she had ever done before. And -there arose in her a nervous and passionate interest in herself. She seemed -so strange, so wonderful. Her childhood was in itself an enigma. That sad -and sorrowful childhood of hers, passed in that old London house; her -mother's love for her; her cruel, stern stepfather, and the endless -quarrels between her father and mother, which made her young life so -unbearable, so wretched, that she could never think of those years without -tears rising to her eyes. And then the going away, coming to live with Mr. -Burnett! The death of her father and her dear mother, so sudden, following -so soon one after the other. How much there had been in her life, how -wonderful it was! Her love of Mr. Burnett, and then that bitter and -passionate change in him! That proposal of marriage; could she ever forget -it? And then this cruel and sudden death. Everything she had ever loved had -been taken from her. Only Julia remained, and should Julia be taken from -her, she felt that she must die. But that would not, could not, happen. She -was now mistress of Ashwood, she was a great heiress; and she and Julia -would live always together, they would always love one another, they would -always live here in this beautiful place which they loved so well. - - - - -VIII - - -There were at the funeral a few personal friends who lived in the -neighbourhood, the farmers on the estate, and the labourers; and when the -little crowd separated outside the church, Emily and Julia walked back to -Ashwood with Mr. Grandly, Mr. Burnett's intimate friend and solicitor. They -returned through the park, hardly speaking at all, Emily absent-minded as -usual, waving her parasol occasionally at a passing butterfly. The grass -was warm and beautiful to look on, and they lingered, prolonging the walk. -It was very good of Mr. Grandly to accompany them back; he might have gone -on straight to the station, so Julia thought, and she was surprised indeed -when, instead of bidding them good-bye at the front door, he said-- - -'Before I return to London I have a communication to make to both you -ladies. Will it suit you to come into the drawing-room with me?' - -'Perfectly, so far as I'm concerned; and you, Emily?' - -'Oh, I've nothing to do; but if it is about business, Julia will -attend----' - -'I think you had better be present, Miss Watson.' - -Mr. Grandly was a tall, massive man with benevolent features; his bald, -pink skull was partly covered with one lock of white hair. There was an -anxious look in his pale, deep-set eyes which impressed Julia, and she -said: 'I hope this communication you have to make to us is not of a painful -nature. We have----' - -'Yes, Mrs. Bentley, I know that you have been severely tried lately, but -there is no help for it. I cannot keep you in ignorance any longer of -certain facts relating to Mr. Burnett's will.' The words 'will' and 'facts' -struck on Emily's ear. She had been thinking about her fortune. The very -ground she was walking on was hers. She was the owner of this beautiful -park; it seemed like a fairy tale. And that house, that dear, old-fashioned -house, that rambling, funny old place of all sizes and shapes, full of deep -staircases and pictures, was hers. Her eyes wandered along the smooth wide -drive, down to the placid water crossed by the great ornamental bridge, the -island where she had watched the swans floating last night--all these -things were hers. So the words 'will' and 'facts' and 'ignorance of them' -jarred her clutching little dream, and she turned her eyes--they wore an -anxious look--towards Mr. Grandly, and said with an authoritative air: -'Yes, let us go into the drawing-room; I want to hear what Mr. Grandly has -to say about----Let us go into the drawing-room at once.' - -Julia took the chair nearest to her. Emily stood at the window, waiting -impatiently for Mr. Grandly to begin. He laid his hat on the parquet, wiped -his forehead with his handkerchief, and drew an arm-chair forward. 'Mr. -Burnett, as you know, made a will some years ago, in favour of his cousin -and adopted daughter, Miss Emily Watson. In that will he left his entire -fortune to her, Ashwood Park and all his invested money. No other person -was mentioned in that will, except Miss Watson. It was I who drew up this -will. I remember discussing its provisions with Mr. Burnett, and advising -him to leave something, even if it were only a few hundred pounds, to his -nephew, Hubert Price. But Mr. Burnett was always a very headstrong man; he -had quarrelled with this young man, as he said, irreparably, and could not -be induced to leave him even a hundred pounds. I thought this was harsh, -and as Mr. Burnett's friend I told him so--I have always been opposed to -extreme measures,--but he was not to be gainsaid. So the matter remained -for many years; never did Mr. Burnett mention his nephew's name. I thought -he had forgotten the young man's existence, when, suddenly, without -warning, Mr. Burnett came into my office and told me that he intended to -alter his will, leaving all his property to his nephew, Hubert Price. You -know what old friends we were, and, presuming on our friendship, I told him -what I thought of his project of disinheritance, for it amounted to that. -Well, suffice it to say, we very nearly quarrelled over the matter. I -refused to draw up the will, so iniquitous did it seem to me. He said: -"Very well, Grandly, I'll go elsewhere." Then I remembered that if I -allowed him to go elsewhere I should lose all hold over him, and I -consented to draw up the will.' - -Emily listened, a vague expression of pain in her pathetic eyes. Then this -house, this room where she was sitting, was not hers, and a strange man -would come soon and drive her away! - -'And he has left Ashwood to Mr. Price, is not that his name?' she said, -abruptly. - -'Yes; he has left Ashwood to Mr. Price.' - -'And when did he make this new will?' - -'I think it is just about a month ago.' - -Emily leaned forward, and her great eyes, full of light and sorrow, were -fixed in space, her little pale hands linked, and the great mass of -chestnut hair slipping from the comb. She was, in truth, at that moment the -subject of a striking picture, and she was even more impressive when she -said, speaking slowly: 'Then that old man was even wickeder than I thought. -Oh, what I have learned in the last three or four weeks! Oh, what -wickedness, what wickedness!... But go on,' she said, looking at Mr. -Grandly; 'tell me all.' - -'I suppose there was some very serious reason, but on that point Mr. -Burnett absolutely refused to answer me. He said his reasons were his own, -and that he intended to leave his money to whom he pleased.' - -'There was----' Julia stopped short, and looked interrogatively at Emily. - -'Go on, Julia, tell him; we have nothing to conceal.' - -'Mr. Burnett asked Emily to marry him a short time ago; she, of course, -refused, and ever since he seemed more like----' - -'A madman than anything else,' broke in Emily. 'Oh, for the last month we -have led a miserable life! It was a happy release.' - -'Is it possible,' said Mr. Grandly, 'that Mr. Burnett seriously -contemplated marriage with Miss Watson?' - -'Yes, and her refusal seemed to drive him out of his mind.' - -'I never was more surprised.' The placid face of the eminently respectable -solicitor lapsed into contemplation. 'I often tried,' he said, suddenly, -'to divine the reason why he changed his will. Disappointed love seemed the -only conceivable reason, but I rejected it as being quite inconceivable. -Well, it only shows how little we know what is passing in each other's -minds.' - -'Then,' said Julia, 'Mr. Burnett has divided his fortune, leaving Ashwood -to Mr. Price, and all his invested money to Emily?' - -A look of pain passed over Mr. Grandly's benevolent face, and he answered: -'Unfortunately he has left everything to Mr. Price.' - -'I'm glad,' exclaimed Emily, 'that he has left me nothing. Once he thought -fit to disinherit me because I would not marry him, I prefer not to have -anything to do with his money.' - -Mr. Grandly and Julia looked at each other; they did not need to speak; -each knew that the girl did not realise at once the full and irretrievable -nature of this misfortune. The word 'destitute' was at present unrealised, -and she only thought that she had been deprived of what she loved best in -the world--Ashwood. Mr. Grandly glanced at her, and then speaking a little -more hurriedly, said-- - -'I was saying just now that I only consented to draw up the will so that I -might be able at some future time to induce Mr. Burnett to add a codicil to -it. Later on I spoke to him again on the subject, and he promised to -consider it, and a few days after he wrote to me, saying that he had -decided to take my advice and add a codicil. Subsequently, in another -letter he mentioned three hundred a year as being the sum he thought he -would be in honour bound to leave Miss Watson. Unfortunately, he did not -live long enough to carry this intention into execution. But the letters he -addressed to me on the subject exist, and I have every hope that the heir, -Mr. Price, will be glad to make some provision for his cousin.' - -'Have you any reason for thinking that Mr. Price will do so?' said Julia. - -'No. But it seems impossible for any honourable man to act otherwise.' - -'He cannot bear enmity against Emily, who of course knew nothing of his -quarrel with his uncle. Do you know anything about Mr. Price? What is he? -Where does he live?' - -'He is a literary man, I believe. I have heard that he writes plays!' - -'Oh, a writer of plays.' - -'Yes. I am glad of it; he may be easier to deal with. I daresay it is a -mistaken notion, but one is apt to imagine that these artist folk are more -generous with their money than ordinary mortals.' - -'Is he married?' said Julia, and involuntarily she glanced toward Emily. - -Mr. Grandly, too, looked toward the girl, and then he said: 'I don't know -if Mr. Price is married; I hope not.' - -'Why do you hope so?' said Emily, suddenly. - -'Because if he isn't, there will only be one person to deal with. If he had -a wife, she would have a voice in the matter; and in such circumstances as -ours a man is easier to deal with. I earnestly hope Mr. Hubert Price is not -married, and shall consider it a great point in our favour if on returning -to town I find he is not.' Then assuming a lighter tone, for the nervous -strain of the last ten minutes had been intense, he said: 'If he is not -married, who knows--you may take a fancy to him, and he to you; then things -would be just the same as before--only better.' - -'I should not marry him--I hate him already. I wonder how you can think of -such a thing, Mr. Grandly? You know that he must be a very wicked man for -uncle to have disinherited him. I have always heard that--but I don't know -what I am saying.' Tears welled up into her eyes. 'I daresay my cousin is -not so bad as--but I can talk no more.... I am very miserable, I have -always been miserable, and I don't know why; I never did harm to any one.' - -Soon after Mr. Grandly bade the ladies good-bye. Julia followed him to the -front door. 'You will do all you can to help us? That poor child is too -young, too inexperienced, to realise what her position is.' - -'I know, I know,' said Mr. Grandly, extending both hands to Julia; 'in the -whole course of my experience I never met with a sadder case. But we must -not take too sad a view of it. Perhaps all will come right in the end. The -young man cannot refuse to make good his uncle's intentions. He cannot see -his cousin go to the workhouse. I will do the best I can for you. The -moment I get back to London, I'll set inquiries on foot and find out his -address, and when I have seen him I'll write. Good-bye.' - -Then, resolving that it were better to leave the girl to herself, Julia -took up her key-basket and hurried away on household business. But in the -middle of her many occupations she would now and then stop short to think. -She had never heard of anything so cruel before. That poor girl--she must -go to her; she must not leave her alone any longer. But it would be well to -avoid the subject as much as possible. She must think of something to -distract her thoughts. The pony-chaise. It might be the last time they had -a carriage to go out in. But they could not go out driving on the day of -the funeral. - -That evening, as they were going to bed, Emily said, lifting her sweet, -pathetic little face, looking all love and gentleness: 'Oh, to think of a -common, vulgar writer coming here, with a common, vulgar wife and a horrid -crowd of children. Oh, Julia, doesn't it seem impossible? And yet I suppose -it is true. I cannot bear to think of it. I can see the horrid children -tramping up and down the stairs, breaking the things we have known and -loved so long; and they will destroy all my flowers, and no one will -remember to feed the poor swans. Dandy, my beloved, I shall be able to take -you with me.' And she caught up the rough-haired terrier and hugged him, -kissing his dear old head. 'Dandy is mine; they can't take him from me, can -they? But do you think the swans belong to them or to us? I suppose it -would be impossible to take them with us if we go to live in London. They -couldn't live in a backyard.' - -'But, dearest Emily, who are "they"? You don't know that he is -married--literary men don't often marry. For all you know, he is a handsome -young man, who will fall madly in love with you.' - -'No one ever fell in love with me except that horrid old man--how I hate -him, how I detest to think of it! I thought I should have died when he -asked to marry me. The very memory of it is enough to make me hate all men, -and prevent me from liking any one. I don't think I could like him; I -should always see that wicked old man's hoary, wrinkled face in his.' - -'Oh, Emily, I cannot think how such ideas can come into your head. It is -not right, indeed it isn't.' And this simple Englishwoman looked at this -sensitive girl in sheer wonderment and alarm. - -'I only say what I think. I am glad the old man did disinherit me. I'm glad -we are leaving Ashwood; I cannot abide the place when I think of him.... -There, that is his chair. I can see him sitting in it now. He is grinning -at us; he is saying, "Ha! ha! I have made beggars of you both." You -remember how we used to tremble when we met his terrible old face on the -stairs; you remember how he used to sit glaring at us all through dinner?' - -'Yes, Emily, I remember all that; but I do not think it natural that you -should forget all the years of kindness; he was very good to you, and loved -you very much, and if he forgot himself at the end of his life, we must -remember the weakness of age.' - -'The hideousness of age,' Emily replied, in a low tone. The conversation -paused, and then Julia said-- - -'You are speaking wildly, Emily, and will live to regret your words. Let us -speak no more of Mr. Burnett... I daresay you will find your cousin a -charming young man. I should laugh if it were all to end in a marriage. And -how glad I should be to see you off on your honeymoon, to bid you -good-bye!' - -'Oh, Julia, don't speak like that; you will never bid me good-bye. You will -never leave me--promise me that--you are my only friend. Oh, Julia, promise -me that you will never leave me.' - -Tears rose in Julia's eyes, and taking the girl in her arms, she said, -'I'll never leave you, my dear girl, until you yourself wish it.' - -'I wish it? Oh, Julia, you do not know me. I have lost everything, Julia, -but I mustn't lose you... After all, it doesn't so much matter, so long as -we are not separated. I don't care about money, and we can have a nice -little house in London all to ourselves. And if we get too hard up, we'll -both go out as daily governesses. I think I could teach a little music, to -young children, you know; you'd teach the older ones.' Emily looked at -Julia inquiringly, and going over to the piano, attempted to play her -favourite polka. Julia, who had once worked for her daily bread, and earned -it in a sort of way by giving music-lessons, smiled sadly at the girl's -ignorance of life. - -'I see,' said Emily, who was quick to divine every shade of sentiment -passing in the minds of those she loved; 'you don't think I could teach -even the little children.' - -'My dear Emily, I hope it will never come to your having to try.' - -'I must do something to get a living,' she replied, looking vaguely and -wistfully into the fire. 'How unfortunate all this is--that horrid, horrid -old man. But supposing he had asked you to marry him--he wasn't nice, but -you are older than I, and if you had married him you would have become, in -a way, my stepmother. But what a charming stepmother! Oh, how I should have -loved that!' - -'Come, Emily, it is time to go to bed; you let your imagination run away -with you.' - -'Julia, you are not cross because----' - -'No, dear, I'm not cross. I'm only a little tired. We have talked too -long.' - -Emily's allusion to music-teaching had revived in Julia all her most -painful memories. If this man were to cast them penniless out of Ashwood! -Supposing, supposing that were to happen? Starving days, pale and haggard, -rose up in her memory. What should she do, what should she do, and with -that motherless girl dependent on her for food and clothes and shelter? She -buried her face in the pillow and prayed that she might be saved from such -a destiny. - -If this man--this unknown creature--were to refuse to help them, she and -Emily would have to go to London, and she would have to support Emily as -best she might. She would hold to her and fight for her with all her -strength, but would she not fall vanquished in the fight; and then, and -then? The same thoughts, questions, and fears turned in her head like a -wheel, and it was not until dawn had begun to whiten the window-panes that -she fell asleep. - -A few days after, the post brought a letter for Julia. After glancing -hastily down the page she said: 'This is a letter from Mr. Grandly, and it -is good news. Oh, what a relief!...' - -'Read it.' - -'"Dear Mrs. Bentley,--Immediately I arrived in London, I set to work to -find out Mr. Price's address. It was the easiest matter in the world, for -he has a play now running at one of the theatres. So I directed my letter -to the theatre, and next morning I had a visit from him. After explaining -to him the resources of the brilliant fortune he had come into, I told him -of his uncle's intention to add a codicil to his will, leaving Miss Watson -three hundred a year; I told him that this last will had left her entirely -unprovided for. He said, at once, that he fully agreed with me, and that he -would consider what was the most honourable course for him to take in -regard to his 'cousin. This is exactly what he said, but his manner was -such that before leaving he left no doubt in my mind whatever that he will -act very generously indeed. I should not be surprised if he settled even -more than the proposed three hundred a year on Miss Watson. He is a very -quiet, thoughtful young man of about two or three and thirty. He looks -poor, and I fancy he has lived through very hard times. He wears an air of -sadness and disappointment which makes him attractive, and his manners are -gentle and refined. I tell you these things, for I know they will interest -you. I have not been able to find out if he is married, but I am sorry to -say that his play has not succeeded. I should have found out more, but he -was not in my office above ten minutes; he had to hurry away to keep an -appointment at the theatre, for, as he explained, it was to be decided that -very day if the play was to be taken out of the bills at the end of the -week. He promised to call again, and our interview is fixed for eleven -o'clock the day after to-morrow. In the meantime take heart, for I think I -am justified in telling you I feel quite sanguine as to the result."' - -'Well,' said Julia, laying down the letter, 'I don't think that anything -could be more satisfactory, and just fancy dear old Mr. Grandly being able -to describe a young man as well as that.' - -'He doesn't say if he is short or tall, or dark or fair.' - -'No, he doesn't. I think he might have told us something about his personal -appearance, but it is a great relief to hear that he is not the vulgar -Bohemian we have always understood him to be. Mr. Grandly says his manners -are refined; you might take a fancy to him after all.' - -'But you don't know that he isn't married. I suppose Mr. Grandly wasn't -able to find that out. I should like to know--but not because I want to -marry him or any one else; only I don't like the idea of a great, vulgar -woman, and a pack of children scampering about the place when we go.' - -'Do you dislike children so much, then, Emily?' - -'I don't know that I ever thought about them; but I'm sure I shouldn't like -his children. I dreamt of him last night. Do you believe in dreams?' - -'What did you dream?' - -'I cannot remember, but I woke up crying, feeling more unhappy than I ever -felt in my life before. It is curious that I should dream of him last -night, and that you should receive that letter this morning, isn't it?' - -'I don't see anything strange in it. Nothing more natural than that you -should dream about him, and it was certain that I should receive a letter -from Mr. Grandly; he promised to write to me in a few days.' - -'Then you believe what is in that letter--I don't. Something tells me that -he will not act kindly, but I don't know how.' - -'I'm quite sure you are wrong, Emily. Mr. Grandly would never have written -this letter unless he knew for certain that Mr. Price would do all or more -than he promised.' - -'I can't see from the letter that he has promised anything... Even if he -does give me three hundred a year, I shall have to leave Ashwood.' - -'My dear Emily, I'm cross with you: of course, if you will insist on always -looking at the melancholy side.... Now I'm going; I've to see after the -housekeeping. Are you going into the garden?' - -'Yes, presently.' - -Emily did not seem to know what she was going to do. She looked out of the -window, she lingered in the corridor; finally she wandered into the -library. The quaint, old-fashioned room recalled her childhood to her. It -was here she used to learn her lessons. Here was the mahogany table, at -which she used to sit with her governess, learning to read and write; and -there, far away at the other end of the long room, was the round table, -where lay the old illustrated editions of _Gulliver's Travels_ and _The -Arabian Nights_, which she used to run to whenever her governess left the -room. And at the bottom of the book-cases there were drawers full of -strange papers; these drawers she used to open in fear and trembling, so -mysterious did they seem to her. And there was the book-cases full of the -tall folios, behind which lay, in dark and dim recesses, stores of books -which she used to pull out, expecting at every moment to come upon -long-forgotten treasures. She smiled now, as she recalled these childish -imaginings, and lifting tenderly the coarse drugget, she looked at the -great green globe which her fingers used to turn in infantile curiosity. - -Then leaving the library, she roamed through the house, pausing on the -first landing to gaze on the picture of the fine gentleman in a red coat, -his hand for ever on his sword. She remembered how she used to wonder whom -he was going to kill, and how sure she used to feel that at last he would -grant his adversary his life. And close by was the picture of the -wind-mill, set on the edge of the down, with the shepherd driving sheep in -the foreground. Her whole life seemed drenched with tears at the thought of -parting with these things. Every room was full of memories for her. She was -a little girl when she came to live at Ashwood, and the room at the top of -the stairs had been her nursery. There were the two beds; both were now -dismantled and bare. It was in the little bed in the corner that she used -to sleep; it was in the old four-poster that her nurse slept. And there was -the very place, in front of the fire, where she used to have her tea. The -table had disappeared, and the grate, how rusty it was! In the far corner, -by the window, there used to be a press, in which nurse kept tea and sugar. -That press had been removed. The other press was there still, and throwing -open the doors she surveyed the shelves. She remembered the very peg on -which her hat and jacket used to hang. And the long walks in the great -park, which was to her, then, a world of wonderment! - -She wandered about the old corridor, in and out of odd rooms, all -associated with her childhood--quaint old rooms, many of them lumber rooms, -full of odd corners and old cupboards, the meaning of which she used to -strive to divine. How their silence and mystery used to thrill her little -soul! Faded rooms whose mystery had departed, but whose gloom was haunted -with tenderest recollections. In one corner was the reading-chair in which -Mr. Burnett used to sit. At that time she used to sit on his knee, and when -the chair gave way beneath their weight, he had said she was too big a girl -to sit on his knee any longer. The words had seemed to her a little cruel. -She had forgotten the old chair, but now she remembered the very moment -when the servants came to take it away. - -Under the window were some fragments of a china bowl which she had broken -when quite a little child. There was a hoop-stick and the hoop which had -been taken down to the blacksmith's to be mended. He had mended it, but she -did not remember ever using it again. And there was an old box of -water-colours, with which she used to colour all the uncoloured drawings in -her picture-books. Emily took the hoop-stick, the old doll, and the broken -box of water-colours, and packed them away carefully. She would be able to -find room for them in the little house in London where she and Julia were -going to live. - -A few days after, the post brought letters from Mr. Grandly, one for Emily -and one for Julia. Julia's letter ran as follows: - -'Dear Mrs. Bentley,---I write by this post to Miss Watson, advising her -that her cousin, Mr. Price, is most anxious to make her acquaintance, and -asking her to send the dog-cart to-morrow to meet him at the station. I -must take upon myself the responsibility for this step. I have seen Mr. -Price again, and he has confirmed me in my good opinion of him. He seems -most anxious, not only to do everything right, but to make matters as -pleasant and agreeable as possible for his cousin. He has written me a -letter recognising Miss Watson's claim upon him, and constituting himself -her trustee. I have not had yet time to prepare a deed of gift, but there -can be little doubt that Miss Watson's position is now quite secure. So far -so good; but more than ever does the only clear and satisfactory way out of -this miserable business seem to me to be a marriage between Mr. Hubert -Price and Miss Watson. I have already told you that he is a nice, refined -young man, of gentlemanly bearing, good presence, and excellent speech, -though a trifle shy and reserved; and, as I have since discovered that he -is not married, I have taken upon myself the responsibility of advising him -to jump into a train and to go and tell his cousin the conclusion he has -come to regarding the will of the late Mr. Burnett. As I have said, he is a -shy man, and it was some time before I could induce him to take so decisive -a step; he wanted to meet Miss Watson in my office, but I succeeded in -persuading him. He will go down to you to-morrow by the five o'clock, and I -need not impress upon you the necessity that you should use your influence -with Miss Watson, and that his reception should be as cordial as -circumstances permit. I have only to add that I see no need that you should -show this letter to Miss Watson, for the very fact of knowing that we -desired to bring about a marriage might prejudice her against this young -man, whom she otherwise cannot fail to find charming.' - -Hearing some one at her door, Julia put the letter away. It was Emily. - -'I've just received a letter from Mr. Grandly, saying that that man is -coming here to-day, and that we are to send the dog-cart for him.' - -'Is not that the very best thing that----' - -'We cannot remain here, we must leave a note for him, or something of that -kind. I wouldn't remain here to meet him for worlds. I really couldn't, -Julia.' - -'And why not, Emily?' - -'To meet the man who is coming to turn me out of Ashwood!' - -'How do you know that he is coming to turn you out of Ashwood? You imagine -these things.... Do you suppose that Mr. Grandly would send him down here -if he did not know what his intentions were?' - -'But we shall have to leave Ashwood.' - -'Very likely, but not in the way you imagine. Remember, Mr. Price is your -cousin; you may like him very much. Let's be guided by Mr. Grandly; I have -not seen your letter, but apparently he advises us to remain here and -receive him.' - -'I don't think I can, Julia. I have misgivings.' - -'Have you been dreaming again?' - -'No; I've not been dreaming, but I have misgivings.' - -'You are a silly little goose, Emily. Come and give me a kiss, and promise -to take my advice.' - -'Dearest Julia, you do love me, don't you? Promise me that we shall not be -separated, and then I don't mind.' - -'Yes, dear, I promise you that, and you will promise me to try to like your -cousin?' - -'I'll try, Julia, but I'm awfully frightened, and--I don't think I could -like him, no matter what he was like. I feel a sort of hatred in my heart. -Don't you know what I mean?' And the girl looked questioningly into her -friend's eyes. - - - - -IX - - -'I am Miss Watson,' she said in her low musical voice, 'and this is my -friend, Mrs. Bentley.' Hubert bowed, and sought for words. He found none, -and the irritating silence was broken again by Miss Watson. 'Won't you sit -down?' she said. - -'Thank you.' He pulled off his gloves. The pained, troubled look which he -had met in Miss Watson's face seemed a reproach, and he regretted not -having followed his own idea, and invited the young lady to meet him at Mr. -Grandly's office. He glanced nervously from one lady to the other. - -'I hope you have had a pleasant journey, Mr. Price,' said Mrs. Bentley. -'The country is looking very beautiful just at present. Do you know this -part of the country?' Mrs. Bentley's words were very welcome, and Hubert -replied eagerly-- - -'No; I do not know the country at all well. I have been very little out of -London for some years, but I hope now to see more of the country. This is a -beautiful place.' - -At that moment he met Mrs. Bentley's eyes, and, feeling that he was -touching on delicate ground, he stopped speaking. When he turned his head, -he met Miss Watson's great sad eyes, which seemed to absorb the entire -face, fixed upon him. They expressed such depth of pathetic appeal that he -trembled with apprehension, and the instinct in him was to beg for pardon. -But it became suddenly necessary to say something, and, speaking at random, -his head full of whirling words, he said-- - -'Of course nothing could be more sad than my poor uncle's death,--so -unexpected... Having lived so long together, you must have----' Then it was -Hubert's turn to look appealingly at Miss Watson; but her great eyes seemed -to say, 'Go on, go on; heap cruelty on cruelty!' Then he plunged -desperately, hoping to retrieve his mistakes. 'He died about a month ago. -Mr. Grandly told me I should still find you here, so I thought----' - -The intensity of his emotion perhaps caused Hubert to accentuate his words, -so that they conveyed a meaning different from that which he intended. -Certainly his hesitations were capable of misinterpretation, and Miss -Watson said, her voice trembling,-- - -'Of course we know we have no right here, we are intruding; but we are -making preparations.... I daresay that to-morrow we shall be able to----' - -'Oh, I beg pardon, Miss Watson; let me assure you ... I am sorry if----' - -Taking a little handkerchief out of her black dress, Emily covered her face -in her thin, tiny hands. She sobbed aloud, and ran out of the room. Hubert -turned to Mrs. Bentley, his face full of consternation. - -'I am very sorry, but she did not give me time to speak. Will you go and -fetch her, Mrs. Bentley? I want to tell her I hope she will never leave -Ashwood. ... I believe she thinks that I came down here to ask her to leave -as soon as possible. It is really quite awful that she should think such a -thing.' - -'She is an exceedingly sensitive girl, and is now a little overwrought. The -events of the last month have proved too much for her.' - -'Mr. Grandly informed me that it was Mr. Burnett's intention to add a -codicil to his will, leaving Miss Watson three hundred a year. This money I -am prepared to give her, and I'm quite sure she is welcome to stay here as -long as she pleases. Indeed, she will do me a great favour by remaining. -Please go and tell her. I cannot bear to see a girl cry; to hear her sob -like that is quite terrible.' - -'You will be able to tell her yourself during the course of the evening. I -think it will come better from you.' - -'After what has happened, it will be very difficult for me to meet her -until she is informed that she is mistaken. I charged Mr. Grandly to -explain everything in his letter. Apparently he omitted to do so.' - -'He only said you wanted to see Emily on a matter of business. Of course we -did not expect such generosity.' - -They were standing quite close together, and suddenly Hubert became -conscious of Mrs. Bentley's beauty. Her blue eyes were at that moment full -of tender admiration for the instinctive generosity which Hubert so -unwittingly exhibited, and her eyes told what was passing in her soul. -Suddenly they both seemed to understand each other better, and, playing -with the bracelet on her arm, she said-- - -'You do not know Emily; she is strangely sensitive. But I will go and try -to persuade her to return.... Although only distantly related, you are -cousins, after all--are you not?' - -'Yes, we are cousins, but the relationship is remote. Tell her everything; -beg of her to come down-stairs.' - -Hubert imagined Emily's little black figure thrown upon her bed, sobbing -convulsively. He was very much agitated, and looked about the room, at -first hardly seeing it. At last its novelty drew his thoughts from his -cousin's tears, and he wondered what was the history of the house. 'The old -man,' he thought, 'bought it all, furniture and ancestors, from some ruined -landowner, and attempted very few alterations--that's clear.' Then he -reproached himself. 'How could I have been so stupid? I did not know what I -was saying. I was so horribly nervous. Those strange eyes of hers quite -upset me. I do hope Mrs. Bentley will tell her that I wish to act -generously, that I am prepared to do everything in my power to make her -happy. Poor little thing! She looks as if she had never been happy.' Again -the room drew Hubert's thoughts away from his cousin. It was still lit with -the faint perfumed glow of the sunset. The paint of the old decorations was -cracked and faded. A man in a plum-coloured coat with gold facings fixed -his eyes upon him, and the tall lady in blue satin had no doubt played -there in short clothes. He walked up and down, he turned over the music on -the piano, and, hearing a step, looked round. It was only the servant -coming to tell him that his room was ready. - -He dressed for dinner, hoping to find the two ladies in the drawing-room, -and it was a disappointment to find only Mrs. Bentley there. - -'I have told Emily everything you said. She is very grateful, and begs of -me to thank you for your kind intentions. But I am afraid you must excuse -her absence from dinner. I really don't think she is in a fit state to come -down; she couldn't possibly take part in the conversation.' - -'But why? I hope she isn't ill? Had we better send for the doctor?' - -'Oh no; she'll be all right in the morning. She has been crying. She -suffers from depression of spirits. She is, I assure you, all right,' said -Mrs. Bentley, replying to Hubert's alarmed and questioning face. 'I assure -you there is no need for you to reproach yourself. Dinner is ready.' She -took his arm, and they went into the dining-room. - -No further mention was made of Mr. Burnett, of money matters, or of the -young lady up-stairs; and with considerable tact Mrs. Bentley introduced -the subject of literature, alluding gracefully to Hubert's position as a -dramatist. - -'Your play, _Divorce_, is now running at the Queen's Theatre?' - -No; I'm sorry to say it was taken out of the bills last Saturday. Saturday -night was the last performance.' - -'That was not a long run. And the papers spoke so favourably of it.' - -'It is a play that only appeals to the few.' And, encouraged by Mrs. -Bentley's manner, Hubert told her how happy endings and comic love-scenes -were essential to secure a popular success. - -'I am afraid you will think me very stupid, but I do not quite understand.' - -In a quiet, unobtrusive way Hubert was a graceful talker, and he knew how -to adapt his theme, and bring it within the circle of the sympathies of his -listeners. There was some similarity of temperament between himself and -Mrs. Bentley; they were both quiet, fair, meditative Saxons. She lent her -whole mind to the conversation, interested in the account that the young -man gave of his dramatic aspirations. - -From the dining-room window looking over the park the long road wound -through the vaporous country. The town stood in the middle distance, its -colour blotted out, and its smoke hardly distinguishable. In the room a -yellow dress turned grey, and the gold of a bracelet grew darker, and the -pink of delicate finger-nails was no longer visible. But the pensive dusk -of the dining-room, which blackened the claret in the decanters, leaving -only the faintest ruby glow in the glass which Hubert raised to his lips, -suited the tenor of the conversation, which had wandered from the dramatic -to the social side of the question. What did he think of divorce? She -sighed, and he wondered what her story might be. - -They passed out of the dining-room, and stood on the gravel, watching the -night gathering in the open country. In the light of the moon, which had -just risen above the woods, the white road grew whiter, the town was -faintly seen in the tide of blue vapour, which here and there allowed a -field to appear. In the foreground a great silver fir, spiky and solitary, -rose up in the blue night. Beyond it was seen a corner of the ornamental -bridge. The island and its shadow were one black mass rising from the park -up to the level of the moon, which, a little to the right, between the town -and the island, lay reflected in a narrow strip of water. Farther away some -reeds were visible in the illusive light, and the meditative chatter of -dozing ducks stirred the silence which wrapped the country like a cloak. - -Hubert and Mrs. Bentley stood looking at the landscape. The fragrance of -his cigar, the presence of the woman, the tenderness of the hour, combined -to make him strangely happy; his past life seemed to him like a harsh, -cruel pain that had suddenly ceased. More than he had ever desired seemed -to be fulfilled; the reality exceeded the dream. What greater happiness -than to live here, and with this woman! His thoughts paused, for he had -forgotten the girl up-stairs. She was not happy; but he would make her -happy--of that he was quite certain. At that moment Mrs. Bentley said-- - -'I hope you like your home. Is not the prospect a lovely one?' - -'Yes; but I was thinking at that moment of Emily. I suppose I must accustom -myself to call her by her Christian name. She is my cousin, and we are -going to live together. But, by the way, she cannot stay here alone. I -hope--I may trust that you will remain with her?' - -Mrs. Bentley turned her face towards him; he noticed the look of pleasure -that had passed into it. - -'Thank you; it is very good of you. I shall be glad to remain with Emily as -long as she cares for my society. It is needless to say I shall do my best -to deserve your approval.' - -[Illustration: "They dined at the Café Royal."] - -Her voice fell, and he heard her sigh, and in his happiness it seemed to -him to be a pity that he should find unhappiness in others. - -They went into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bentley asked him if he liked music, -and she went to the piano and sang some Scotch songs very sweetly. Then she -took a book from the table and bade him good-night. She was sure that he -would excuse her. She must go and see after Emily. - -When the door closed, the woman who had just left him seemed like some one -he had seen in a dream; and still more shadowy and illusive did the girl -seem--that pale and plaintive beauty, looking like a pastel, who had so -troubled him with her enigmatic eyes! And the lodging-house that he had -left only a few hours ago! and Rose. - -On Sunday he had taken Rose out to dinner. They dined at the Café-Royal. He -had tried to talk to her about Hamilton Brown's new drama, which they had -just heard would follow _Divorce_; but he was unable to detach his thoughts -from Ashwood and the ladies he was going to visit to-morrow evening. Hubert -and Rose had felt like two school-fellows, one of whom is leaving school; -the link that had bound them had snapped; henceforth their ways lay -separate; and they were sad at parting just as school-friends are sad. - -'You are not rich; you offered to lend me money once. I want to lend you -some now.' - -'Oh yes; five shillings, wasn't it?' - -'It doesn't matter what the sum was--we were both very poor then----' - -'And I'm still poorer now.' - -'All the more reason why you should allow me to help you.... Allow me to -write you a cheque for a hundred pounds. I assure you I can afford it.' - -'I think I had better not.... I have some things I can sell.' - -'But you must not sell your things. Indeed, you must allow me----' - -'I think I'd rather not. I shall be all right--that is to say, if Ford -engages me for Brown's new piece; and I think he will.' - -'But if he doesn't?' - -'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?' - -'You mustn't abuse my picture. I used to spend hours wondering if those -horsemen galloping so madly through the wood were robbers, and if they had -robbed the castle shown between the trees. I used to wonder if they would -succeed in escaping. They wouldn't gallop their horses like that unless -they were being pursued.... Can I have the picture?' - -'Of course you can. Is that--that is not all you are going to ask me for?' - -'I did think of asking you for a few more things. Do you mind?' - -'No, not the least. The more you ask for, the more I shall be pleased.' - -'Then you must come down-stairs.' - -They went down to the next landing. Emily stopped before a bed-room, and, -looking at Hubert shyly and interrogatively, she said-- - -'This is my room. I don't know if it is in a fit state to show you. I'm not -a very tidy girl. I'll look first.' - -'Yes; it will do,' she said, drawing back. 'You can look in. I want you to -give me that wardrobe. It isn't a very handsome one, but I've used it ever -since I was a little girl; it has a hollow top, and I used to hide things -there. Do you think you can spare it?' - -'Yes; I think I can,' he said, smiling. - -Then she led him up-stairs through the old lumber rooms, picking out here -and there some generally broken and always worthless piece of furniture, -pleading for it timidly, and strangely delighted when he nodded, granting -her every request. She asked him to pull out what she had chosen from the -_débris_, and a curious collection they made in the passage--dim and -worm-eaten pictures, small book-cases, broken vases which she proposed -mending. - -Hubert wiped the dust from his hands and coat-sleeves. - -'What a lot of things you have given me! Now we shall be able to get on -nicely with our furnishing.' - -'What furnishing?' - -'The furnishing of the little house in London where Julia and I are going -to live. You said you intended to add a hundred a year to the three hundred -a year which Mr. Burnett should have left me; I don't see why you should do -such a thing, but if you do we shall have four hundred a year to live upon. -Julia says that we shall then be able to afford to give fifty pounds a year -for a house. We can get a very nice little house, she says, for that--of -course, in one of the suburbs. The great expense will be the furnishing; we -are going to do it on the hire system. I daresay one can get very nice -things in that way, but I do want to make the place look a little like -Ashwood; that is why I'm asking you for these things. I was always fond of -playing in these old lumber-rooms, and these dim old pictures, which I -don't think any one knows anything of except myself, will remind me of -Ashwood. They will look very well, indeed, hanging round our little -dining-room. You are sure you don't want them, do you?' - -'No; I won't want them. I'm only too pleased to be able to give them to -you.' - -'You are very good, indeed you are. Look at these old haymakers; I never -saw but one little corner of this picture before; it was stowed away behind -a lot of lumber, and I hadn't the strength to pull it out.... I'm afraid -you've got yourself rather dusty.' - -'Oh no; it will brush off.' - -'I shall hang this picture over the fireplace; it will look very well -there. I daresay you don't see anything in it, but I'd sooner have these -pictures than those down-stairs. I love the picture of the windmill on the -first landing----' - -'Then why not have it? I'll have it taken down at once.' - -'No; I could not think of taking it. How would the landing look without it? -I should miss it dreadfully when I came here--for I daresay you will ask us -to visit you occasionally, when you are lonely, won't you?' - -'My dear Emily, whenever you like, I hope you will come here.' - -'And you will come and stay with us in London? Your room will be always -ready; I'll look after that. We shall feel very offended, indeed, if you -ever think of going to an hotel. Of course, you mustn't expect much; we -shall only be able to keep one servant, but we shall try to make you -comfortable, and, when you come, you'll take me to the theatres, to see one -of your own plays.' - -'If my play's being played, certainly. But would it be right for me to pay -you visits in London?' - -'They would be very wicked people indeed who saw anything wrong in it; you -are my cousin. But why do you say such things? You destroy all my pleasure, -and I was so happy just now.' - -'I'm afraid, Emily, your happiness hangs on a very slender thread.' - -She looked at him inquiringly, but feeling that it would be unwise to -attempt an explanation, he said in a different tone-- - -'But, Emily, if you love Ashwood so well, why do you go away?' - -'Why do I go away? We have been here now some time.... I can't live here -always.' - -'Why not? Why not let things go on just as they are?' - -'And live here with you, I and Julia?' - -'Yes; why not?' - -'We should bore you; you want to write your plays, you'd get tired of me.' - -'Your being here would not prevent my writing my plays. I have been -thinking all the while of asking you to remain, but was afraid you would -not care to live here.' - -'Not care to live here! But you'll get tired of us; we might quarrel.' - -'No; we shall never quarrel. You will be doing me a great favour by -remaining. Just fancy living alone in this great house, not a soul to speak -to all day! I'm sure I should end by going out and hanging myself on one of -those trees.' - -'You wouldn't do that, would you?' - -Hubert laughed. 'You and Mrs. Bentley will be doing me a great favour by -remaining. If you go away I shall be robbed right and left, the gardens -will go to rack and ruin, and when you come down here you won't know the -place, and then, perhaps, we shall quarrel.' - -'I shouldn't like Ashwood to go to rack and ruin--and my poor flowers! And -I'm sure you'd forget to feed the swans. If you did that, I could not -forgive you.' - -'Well, let these grave considerations decide you to remain.' - -'Are you really serious?' - -'I never was more serious in my life.' - -'Well then, may I run and tell Julia?' - -'Certainly, and I'll--no, I won't. I'll look up the housemaids and tell -them to restore this interesting collection of antiquities to their -original dust.' - - - - -XII - - -He was, perhaps, a little too conscious of his happiness; and he feared to -do anything that would endanger the pleasure of his present life. It seemed -to him like a costly thing which might slip from his hand or be broken; and -day by day he appreciated more and more the delicate comfort of this -well-ordered house--its brightness, its ample rooms, the charm of space -within and without, the health of regular and wholesome meals, the presence -of these two women, whose first desire was to minister to his least wish or -caprice. These, the first spoilings he had received, combined to render him -singularly happy. Bohemianism, he often thought, had been forced upon -him--it was not natural to him, and though spiritual belief was dead, he -experienced in church a resurrection of influences which misfortune had -hypnotised, but which were stirring again into life. He was conscious again -of this revival of his early life in the evenings when Mrs. Bentley went to -the piano; and when playing a game of chess or draughts, remembrances of -the old Shropshire rectory came back, sudden, distinct, and sweet. In these -days the disease of fame and artistic achievement only sang monotonously, -plaintively, like the wind in the valleys where the wind never wholly -rests. - -Sometimes, when moved by the novel he was reading, he would discuss its -merits and demerits with the two women who sat by him in the quiet of the -dim drawing-room, their work on their knees, thinking of him. In the -excitement of criticism his thoughts wandered to his own work, and the -women's eyes filled with reveries, and their hands folded languidly over -their knees. He spoke without emphasis, his words seeming to drop from the -thick obsession of his dream. At ten the ladies gathered up their work, -bade him good-night; and nightly these good-nights grew tenderer, and -nightly they went up-stairs more deeply penetrated with a sense of their -happiness. But at heart he was a man's man. He hardly perceived life from a -woman's point of view; and in the long evenings which he spent with these -women he sometimes had to force himself to appear interested in their -conversation. He was as far removed from one as from the other. Emily's -wilfulness puzzled him, and he did not seem to have anything further to -talk about to Mrs. Bentley. - -He missed the bachelor evenings of former days--the whisky and water, the -pipes, and the literary discussion; and as the days went by he began to -think of London; his thoughts turned affectionately towards the friends he -had not seen for so long, and at the end of July he announced his intention -of running up to town for a few days. So one morning breakfast was hurried -through; Emily was sure there was plenty of time; Hubert looked at the -clock and said he must be off; Julia ran after him with parcels which he -had forgotten; farewell signs were waved; the dog-cart passed out of sight, -and, after lingering a moment, the women returned to the drawing-room -thoughtfully. - -'I wonder if he'll catch the train,' said Emily, without taking her face -from the window. - -'I hope so; it will be very tiresome for him if he has to come back. There -isn't another train before three o'clock.' - -'If he missed this train he wouldn't go until to-morrow morning.... I -wonder how long he'll stay away. Supposing something happened, and he never -came back!' Emily turned round and looked at Julia in dreamy wonderment. - -'Not come back at all? What nonsense you are talking, Emily! He won't be -away more than a fortnight or three weeks.' - -'Three weeks! that seems a very long while. How shall we get through our -evenings?' - -Emily had again turned towards the window. Julia did not trouble to reply. -She smiled a little, as she paused on the threshold, for she remembered -that no more than a few weeks ago Emily had addressed to her passionate -speeches declaring her to be her only friend, and that they would like to -live together, content in each other's companionship, always ignoring the -rest of the world. Although she had not mistaken these speeches for -anything more than the nervous passion of a moment, the suddenness of the -recantation surprised her a little. Three or four days after, the girl was -in a different mood, and when they came into the drawing-room after dinner -she threw her arms about Julia's neck, saying, 'Isn't this like old times? -Here we are, living all alone together, and I'm not boring myself a bit. I -never shall have another friend like you, Julia.' - -'But you'll be very glad when Hubert comes back.' - -'There's no harm in that, is there? I should be very ungrateful if I -wasn't. Think how good he has been to us.... I'm afraid you don't like him, -Julia.' - -'Oh, yes, I do, Emily.' - -'Not so much as I do.' And raising herself--she was sitting on Julia's -knees--Emily looked at Julia. - -'Perhaps not,' Julia replied, smiling; 'but then I never hated him as much -as you did.' - -A cloud came over Emily's face. 'I did hate him, didn't I? You remember -that first evening? You remember when you came up-stairs and found me -trembling in the passage--I was afraid to go to bed. ... I begged you to -allow me to sleep with you. You remember how we listened for his footstep -in the passage, as he went up to bed, and how I clung to you? Then the -dreams of that night. I never told you what my dreams were, but you -remember how I woke up with a cry, and you asked me what was the matter?' - -'Yes, I remember.' - -'I dreamt I was with him in a garden, and was trying to get away; but he -held me by a single hair, and the hair would not break. How absurd dreams -are! And the garden was full of flowers, but every time I tried to gather -them, he pulled me back by that single hair. I don't remember any more, -only something about running wildly away from him, and losing myself in a -dark forest, and there the ground was soft like a bog, and it seemed as if -I were going to be swallowed up every moment. It was a terrible sensation. -All of a sudden I woke with a cry. The room was grey with dawn, and you -said: "Emily dear, what have you been dreaming, to cry out like that?" I -was too tired and frightened to tell you much about my dream, and next -morning I had forgotten it. I did not remember it for a long time after, -but all the same some of it came true. Don't you remember how I met Hubert -next morning on the lawn? We went into the garden and spent the best part -of the morning walking about the lake.... I don't know if I told you--I ran -away when I heard him coming, and should have got away had it not been for -this tiresome dog. He called after me, using my Christian name. I was so -angry I think I hated him then more than ever. We walked a little way, and -the next thing I remember was thinking how nice he was. I don't know how it -all happened. Now I think of it, it seems like magic. It was the day that -my old donkey ran away with the mowing machine and broke the flower-vase, -the dear old thing; we had a long talk about "Jack." And then I took Hubert -into the garden and showed him the flowers. I don't think he cares much -about flowers; he pretended, but I could see it was only to please me. Then -I knew that he liked me, for when I told him I was going to feed the swans, -he said he loved swans and begged to be allowed to come too. I don't think -a man would say that if he didn't like you, do you?' - -Emily's mind seemed to contain nothing but memories of Hubert. What he had -said on this occasion, how he had looked at her on another. The -conversation paused and Emily sunned herself in the enchantment of -recollection, until at last breaking forth again, she said-- - -'Have you noticed how Ethel Eastwick goes after him? And the odd part of it -is, that she can't see that he dislikes her. He thinks nothing of her -singing; he remained talking to me in the conservatory the whole time. I -asked him to come into the drawing-room, but he pretended to misunderstand -me, and asked me if I felt a draught. He said, "Let me get you a shawl." I -said, "I assure you, Hubert, I don't feel any draught." But he would not -believe me, and said he could not allow me to sit there without something -on my shoulders. I begged of him not to move, for I knew that Ethel would -never forgive me if I interrupted her singing; but he said he could get me -a wrap without interrupting any one. He opened the conservatory door, ran -across the lawn round to the front door, and came back with--what do you -think? With two wraps instead of one; one was mine, and the other belonged -to--I don't know who it belonged to. So I said, "Oh, what ever shall we do? -I cannot let you go back again. If any one was to come in and find me -alone, what ever would they think!" Hubert said, "Will you come with me? A -walk in the garden will be pleasanter than sitting in the conservatory." I -didn't like going at first, but I thought there couldn't be much harm.' - -It seemed to Emily very terrible and very wonderful, and she experienced -throughout her numbed sense a strange, thrilling pain, akin to joy, and she -sat, her little fragile form lost in the arm-chair, her great eyes fixed in -ecstasy, seeing still the dark garden with the great star risen like a -phantom above the trees. That evening had been to her a wonder and an -enchantment, and her pausing thoughts dwelt on the moment when the distant -sound of a bell reached their ears, and the bell came nearer, clanging -fiercely in the sonorous garden. Then they saw a light--some one had come -for them with a lantern--a joke, a suitable pleasantry, and amid joyous -laughter, watching the setting moon, they had gone back to the tiled house, -where dancers still passed the white-curtained windows. Hubert had sat by -her at supper, serving her with meat and drink. In the sway of memory she -trembled and started, looking in the great arm-chair like a little bird -that the moon keeps awake in its soft nest. She no longer wished to tell -Julia of that night in the garden; her sensation of it lay far beyond -words; it was her secret, and it shone through her dreamy youth even as the -star had shone through the heavens that night. Suddenly she said-- - -'I wonder what Hubert is doing in London? I wonder where he is now?' - -'Now? It is just nine. I suppose he's in some theatre.' - -'I suppose he goes a great deal to the theatre. I wonder who he goes with. -He has lots of friends in London--actresses, I suppose; he knows them who -play in his plays. He dines at his club----' - -'Or at a restaurant.' - -'I wonder what a restaurant is like; ladies dine at restaurants, don't -they?' - -As Julia was about to make reply, the servant brought her a letter. She -opened the envelope, and took out a long, closely-written letter; she -turned it over to see the signature, and then looking toward Emily, she -said, with a pleasant smile-- - -'Now I shall be able to answer your questions better; this letter is from -Mr. Price.' - -'Oh, what does he say? Read it.' - -'Wait a moment, let me glance through it first; it is very difficult to -read.' A few moments after, Julia said, 'There's not much that would -interest you in the letter, Emily; it is all about his play. He says he -would have written before if he had not been so busy looking out for a -theatre, and engaging actors and actresses. He hopes to start rehearsing -next week. - -"I say I hope, because there are still some parts of the play which do not -satisfy me, particularly the third act. I intend to work steadily on the -play till, next Thursday, five or six hours every day; I am in perfect -health and spirits, and ought to be able to get the thing right. Should I -fail to satisfy myself, or should any further faults appear when we begin -to rehearse the piece, I shall dismiss my people, pack up my traps, and -return to Ashwood. There I shall have quiet; here, people are continually -knocking at my door, and I cannot deny my friends the pleasure of seeing -me, if that is a pleasure. But at Ashwood, as I say, I shall be sure of -quiet, and can easily finish the play this autumn, and February is a better -time than September to produce a play."' - -'Then he goes on,' said Julia, 'to explain the alterations he contemplates -making. There's no use reading you all that.' - -'I suppose you think I should not understand.' - -'My dear Emily, if you want to read the letter, there it is.' - -'I don't want to see your letter.' - -'What do you mean, Emily?' - -'Nothing, only I think it rather strange that he didn't write to me.' - -Some days after, Emily took up the book that Julia had laid down. -'"Shakespeare's Plays." I suppose you are reading them so that you'll be -able to talk to him better.' - -'I never thought of such a thing, Emily.' At the end of a long silence -Emily said-- - -'Do you think clever men like clever women?' - -'I don't know. Some say they do, some say they don't. I believe that really -clever men, men of genius, don't.' - -'I wonder if Hubert is a man of genius. What do you think?' - -'I really am not capable of expressing an opinion on the matter.' - -Another week passed away, and Emily began to assume an air of languor and -timid yearning. One day she said-- - -'I wonder he doesn't write. He hasn't answered my letter yet. Has he -answered yours?' - -'He has not written to me again. He hasn't time for letter-writing. He is -working night and day at his play.' - -'I suppose he'd never think of coming down by the morning train. He'd be -sure to come by the five o'clock.' - -'He won't come without writing. He'd be sure to write for the dog-cart.' - -'I suppose so. There's no use in looking out for him.' - -But, notwithstanding her certitude on the point, Emily could not help -choosing five o'clock as the time for a walk, and Julia noticed that the -girl's feet seemed to turn instinctively towards the lodge. Often she would -leave the flowers she was tending on the terrace, and stand looking through -the dim, sun-smitten landscape toward the red-brown spot, which was -Southwater, in the middle of the long plain. - - - - -XIII - - -Hubert felt called upon to entertain his friends, and one evening they all -sat dining at Hurlingham in the long room. The conversation, as usual, had -been about books and pictures. - -It was the moment when strings of lanterns were hoisted from tree to tree. -In front of a large space of sky the coloured globes were crude and -trivial; but in the shadows of the trees by the river, where the mist rose -into the branches, they had begun to awaken the first impression of -melancholy and the sadness of _fête_. It was the moment when the great -trees hung heavy and motionless, strangely green and solemn beneath a -slate-coloured sky; and the plaintive waltz cried on Hungarian -fiddle-strings, till it seemed the soul of this feminine evening. The -fashionable crowd had moved out upon the lawn; the white dresses were -phantom blue, and the men's coats faded into obscure masses, darkening the -gathering shadows. It was the moment when voices soften, and every heart, -overpowered with yearning, is impelled to tell of grief and disillusion; -and every moment the wail of the fiddles grew more unbearable, tearing the -heart to its very depths. - -Author and actor-manager walked up the lawn puffing at their cigars. The -others sat watching, knowing that the opportunity had come for criticism of -their friend. - -'He does not change much,' said Harding. 'Circumstances haven't affected -him. A year ago he lived in a garret re-writing his play _Divorce_. He now -rewrites _Divorce_ in a handsome house in Sussex.' - -'I thought he had finished his play,' said Thompson. 'I heard that he was -going to take a theatre and produce it himself.' - -'But did you not hear him say at dinner that he was re-writing as he -rehearsed? I met one of the actors yesterday. He doesn't know what to make -of it. He gets a new part every week to learn.' - -'Do you think he'll ever produce it?' - -'I doubt it. At the last moment he'll find that the third act doesn't -satisfy him, and will postpone the production till the spring.' - -'What do you think of his work?' - -'Very intelligent, but a little insipid--like himself. Look at him. _Il est -bien l'homme de ses ouvres_. There is something dry about him, and his -writings are like himself--hard, dry and wanting in personal passion.' - -'Yet he talks charmingly, with vivacity and intelligence, and he is so full -of appreciation of Shakespeare, Goethe, and such genuine love for -antiquity.' - -'I've heard him talk Shakespeare, Goethe, and Ibsen,' said Harding, 'but I -never heard him say anything new, anything personal. It seems to me that -you mistake quotation for perception. He assimilates, but he originates -nothing. He has read a great deal; he is covered with literature like a -rock with moss and lichen. He's appreciative, I will say that for him. He -would make a capital editor, or a tutor, or a don, an Oxford don. He would -be perfectly happy as a don; he could read up the German critics and -expound Sophocles. He would be perfectly happy as a don. As it is, he is -perfectly miserable.' - -'There was a fellow who had a studio over mine,' said Thompson. 'He had -been in the army and used to paint a bit. The academy by chance hung a -portrait, so he left the army and turned portrait-painter. One day he saw a -picture by Velasquez, and he understood how horrid were the red things he -used to send to the academy. He used to come down to see me; he used to -say, "I wish I had never seen a picture, by Gad, it is driving me out of my -mind." Poor chap, I wanted him to go back to the army. I said, Why paint? -no one forces you to; it makes you miserable; don't do so any more. When -you have anything to say, art is a joy; when you haven't, it is a curse to -yourself and to others.' - -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 génie raté_,' 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.' - -[Illustration: "Sometimes, in an exciting passage, the hands were -clasped."] - -'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. - -In the drawing-room he insisted on being nursed; and alone, amid the faded -furniture, watched over by the old portraits, her pale face fixed and her -pale hands clasping her beloved dog, she sat thinking, brooding over the -unhappiness, the incurable unhappiness, of her little life. She was -absorbed in self, and did not rail against Hubert, or even Julia. Their -personalities had somehow dropped out of her mind, and merely represented -forces against which she found herself unable any longer to contend. Nor -was she surprised at what had happened. There had always been in her some -prescience of her fate. She and unhappiness had always seemed so -inseparable, that she had never found it difficult to believe that this -last misfortune would befall her. She had thought it over, and had decided -that it would be unendurable to live any longer, and had borne many a -terrible insomnia so that she might collect sufficient chloral to take her -out of her misery; and now, as she sat thinking, she remembered that she -had never, never been happy. Oh! the miserable evenings she used to spend, -when a child, between her father and mother, who could not agree--why, she -never understood. But she used to have to listen to her mother addressing -insulting speeches to her father in a calm, even voice that nothing could -alter; and, though both were dead and years divided her from that time, the -memory survived, and she could see it all again--that room, the very paper -on the wall, and her father being gradually worked up into a frenzy. - -When she was left an orphan, Mr. Burnett had adopted her, and she -remembered the joy of coming to Ashwood. She had thought to find happiness -there; but there, as at home, fate had gone against her, and she was hardly -eighteen when Mr. Burnett had asked her to marry him. She had loved that -old man, but he had not loved her; for when she had refused to marry him he -had broken all his promises and left her penniless, careless of what might -become of her. Then she had given her whole heart to Julia, and Julia, too, -had deceived her. And had she not loved Hubert?--no one would ever know how -much; she did not know herself,--and had he not lied to her? Oh, it was -very cruel to deceive a poor little girl in this heartless way! There was -no heart in the world, that was it--and she was all heart; and her heart -had been trampled on ever since she could remember. And when they came back -they would revenge themselves upon her--insult her with their happiness; -perhaps insist on sending her away. - -Dandy drowsed on her lap. The servant brought in the tea, and when he -returned to the kitchen he said he had never seen any one look so -ghost-like as Miss Emily. The clock ticked loudly in the silence of the old -room, the hands moving slowly towards ten. She waited for the hour to -strike; it was then that she usually went to bed. Her thoughts moved as in -a nightmare; and paramount in this chaotic mass of sensation was an acute -sense of the deception that had been practised on her; with the -consciousness, now firm and unalterable, that it had become impossible for -her to live. When the clock struck she got up from her chair, and the -movement seemed to react on her brain; her thoughts unclouded, and she went -up-stairs thinking clearly of her love of this old house. The old gentleman -in the red coat, his hand on his sword, looked on her benignly; and the -lady playing the spinet smiled as sweetly as was her wont. Emily held up -the candle to the picture of the windmill. She had always loved that -picture, and the sad thought came that she should never see it again. -Dandy, who had galloped up-stairs, stood looking through the banisters, -wagging his tail. - -The moment she got into her room she wrote the following note: 'I have -taken an overdose of chloral. My life was too miserable to be borne any -longer. I forgive those who have caused my unhappiness, and I hope they -will forgive me any unhappiness I have caused them.' They were nothing to -her now; they were beyond her hate, and the only pang she felt was parting -with her beloved Dandy. There he stood looking at her, standing on the edge -of the bed, waiting for her to cover him up and put him to sleep in his own -corner. 'Yes, Dandy, in a moment, dear--have patience.' She looked round -the little room, and, remembering all that she had suffered there, thought -that the walls must be saturated with grief, like a sponge. - -It was a common thing at that time for her to stand before the glass and -address such words as these to herself: 'My poor girl, how I pity you, how -I pity you!' And now, looking at herself very sadly, she said, 'My poor -girl, I shall never pity you any more!' Having hung up her dress, she -fetched a chair and took various doses of chloral out of the hollow top of -her wardrobe, where she had hidden things all her life--sweets, novels, -fireworks. They more than half-filled the tumbler; and, looking at the -sticky, white liquid, she thought with repugnance of drinking so much of -it. But, wanting to make quite sure of death, she resolved to take it all, -and she undressed quickly. She was very cold when she got into bed. Then a -thought struck her, and she got out of bed to add a postscript to her -letter. 'I have only one request to make. I hope Dandy will always be taken -care of.' Surprised that she had not wrapped him up and told him he was to -go to sleep, the dog stood on the edge of the bed, watching her so -earnestly that she wondered if he knew what she was going to do. 'No, you -don't know, dear--do you? If you did, you wouldn't let me do it; you'd bark -the house down, I know you would, my own darling.' Clasping him to her -breast, she smothered him with kisses, then put him away in his corner, -covering him over for the night. - -She felt neither grief nor fear. Through much suffering, thought and -sensation were, to a great extent, dead in her; and, in a sort of emotive -numbness, she laid her candlestick in its usual place on the chair by her -bedside; and, sitting up in bed, her night-dress carefully buttoned, -holding the tumbler half-filled with chloral, she tried to take a -dispassionate survey of her life. She thought of what she had endured, and -what she would have to endure if she did not take it. Then she felt she -must go, and without hesitation drank off the chloral. She placed the -tumbler by the candlestick, and lay down, remembering vaguely that a long -time ago she had decided that suicide was not wrong in itself. The last -thing she remembered was the clock striking eleven. - -For half an hour she slept like stone. Then her eyes opened, and they told -of sickness now in motion within her. And, strangely enough, through the -overpowering nausea rising from her stomach to her brain, the thought that -she was not going to die appeared perfectly clear, and with it a sense of -disappointment; she would have to begin it all over again. It was with -great difficulty that she struck a match and lighted a candle. It seemed -impossible to get up. At last she managed to slip her legs out of bed, and -found she could stand, and through the various assaults of retching she -thought of the letter: it must be destroyed; and, leaning in the corner -against the wall and the wardrobe, she tried to recover herself. A dull, -deep sleep was pressing on her brain, and she thought she would never be -able to cross the room to where the letter was. Dandy looked out of his -rug; she caught sight of his bright eyes. - -On cold and shaky feet she attempted to make her way towards the letter; -but the room heaved up at her, and, fearing she should fall, and knowing if -she did that she would not be able to regain her feet, she clung to the -toilette-table. She must destroy that letter: if it were found, they would -watch her; and, however impossible her life might become, she would not be -able to escape from it. This consideration gave her strength for a final -effort. She tore the letter into very small pieces, and then, clinging to a -chair, strove to grasp the rail of the bed; but the bed rolled worse than -any ship. Making a supreme effort, she got in; and then, neither dreams nor -waking thoughts, but oblivion complete. Hours and hours passed, and when -she opened her eyes her maid stood over the bed, looking at her. - -'Oh, miss, you looked so tired and ill that I didn't wake you. You do seem -poorly, miss. It is nearly two o'clock. Should you like to sleep a little -longer, or shall I bring you up some breakfast?' - -'No, no, no, thank you. I couldn't touch anything. I'm feeling wretched; -but I'll get up.' - -The maid tried to dissuade her; but Emily got out of bed, and allowed -herself to be dressed. She was very weak--so weak that she could hardly -stand up at the washstand; and the maid had to sponge her face and neck. -But when she had drunk a cup of tea and eaten a little piece of toast, she -said she felt better, and was able to walk into the drawing-room. She -thought no more of death, nor of her troubles; thought drowned in her; and -in a passive, torpid state she sat looking into the fire till dinner-time, -hardly caring to bestow a casual caress on Dandy, who seemed conscious of -his mistress's neglect, for, in his sly, coaxing way, he sometimes came and -rubbed himself against her feet. She went into the dining-room, and the -servant was glad to see that she finished her soup, and, though she hardly -tasted it, she finished a wing of a chicken, and also the glass of wine -which the man pressed upon her. Half an hour after, when he brought out the -tea, he found her sitting on her habitual chair nursing her dog, and -staring into the fire so drearily that her look frightened him, and he -hesitated before he gave her the letter which had just come up from the -town; but it was marked 'Immediate.' - -When he left the room she opened it. It was from Mrs. Bentley:-- - -'Dearest Emily,--I know that Hubert told you that he was not going to marry -me. He thought he was not, for I had refused to marry him; but a short time -after we met in the park quite accidentally, and--well, fate took the -matter out of our hands, and we are to be married to-morrow. Hubert insists -on going to Italy, and I believe we shall remain there two months. We have -made arrangements for your aunt to live with you until we come back; and -when we do come back, I hope all the little unpleasantnesses which have -marred our friendship for this last month or two will be forgotten. So far -as I am concerned, nothing shall be left undone to make you happy. Your -will shall be law at Ashwood so long as I am there. If you would like to -join us in Italy, you have only to say the word. We shall be delighted to -have you.' - -Emily could read no more. 'Join them in Italy!' She dashed the letter into -the fire, and an intense hatred of them both pierced her heart and brain. -It was the kiss of Judas. Oh, those hateful, lying words! To live here with -her aunt until they came back, to wait here quietly until she returned in -triumph with him--him who had been all the world to her. Oh no; that was -not possible. Death, death--escape she must. But how? She had no more -chloral. Suddenly she thought of the lake. 'Yes, yes; the lake, the lake!' -And then a keen, swift, passionate longing for death, such as she had not -felt at all the night before, came upon her. There was the knowledge too -that by killing herself she would revenge herself on those who had killed -her. She was just conscious that her suicide would have this effect, but -hardly a trace of such intention appeared in the letter she wrote; it was -as melancholy and as brief as the letter she had torn up, and ended, like -it, with a request that Dandy should be well looked after. She had only -just directed the envelope when she heard the servant coming to take away -the tea-things. She concealed the letter; and when his steps died away in -the corridor and the house-door closed, she knew she could slip out -unobserved. Instinctively she thought of her hat and jacket, and, without a -shudder, remembered she would not need them. She sped down the pathway -through the shadow of the firs. - -It was one of those warm nights of winter when a sulphur-coloured sky hangs -like a blanket behind the wet, dishevelled woods; and, though there was -neither moon nor star, the night was strangely clear, and the shadow of the -bridge was distinct in the water. When she approached the brink the swans -moved slowly away. They reminded her of the cold; but the black obsession -of death was upon her; and, hastening her steps, she threw herself forward. -She fell into shallow water and regained her feet, and for a moment it -seemed uncertain if she would wade to the bank or fling herself into a -deeper place. Suddenly she sank, the water rising to her shoulders. She was -lifted off her feet. A faint struggle, a faint cry, and then -nothing--nothing but the whiteness of the swans moving through the sultry -night slowly towards the island. - - - - -XX - - -Its rich, inanimate air proclaimed the room to be an expensive bedroom in a -first-class London hotel. Interest in the newly-married couple, who were to -occupy the room, prompted the servants to see that nothing was forgotten; -and as they lingered steps were heard in the passage, and Hubert and Julia -entered. The maid-servants stood aside to let them pass, and one inquired -if madame wanted anything, so that her eyes might be gratified with a last -inquisition of the happy pair. - -'How wonderful! oh, how wonderful! I don't think I ever saw any one act -before like that--did you?' - -'She certainly had three or four moments that could not be surpassed. Her -entrance in the sleep-walking scene--what vague horror! what pale -presentiment! how she filled the stage! nothing seemed to exist but she.' - -'And Ford; what did you think of Ford's Macbeth?' - -'Very good. Everything he does is good. Talent; but the other has genius.' - -'I shall never forget this evening. What an awful tragedy!' - -'Perhaps I should have taken you to see something more cheerful; but I -wanted to see Miss Massey play Lady Macbeth. But let us talk of something -else. Splendid fire--is it not?' - -Hubert threw off his overcoat, the movement attracted Julia's attention, -and it startled her to see how old he seemed to have grown. She noticed as -she had not noticed before the grey in his beard and the pathetic weary -look that haunted his eyes. And she understood in that instant that the -look his face wore was the look of those who have failed in their vocation. - -And at that very moment he was wondering if he really loved her, if his -marriage were a mistake. The passion he had felt when walking with her on -the wet country road he felt no longer, only an undefinable sadness and a -weariness which he could not understand. He looked at his wife, and fearing -that she divined his thoughts, he kissed her. She returned his kiss coldly -and he wondered if she loved him. He thought that it was improbable that -she did. Why should she love him? He had never loved any one. He had never -inspired love in any one, except perhaps Emily. - -'I wonder if you really wished to be married,' she said. - -'I always wished to be married,' he replied. 'I hated the Bohemianism I was -forced to live in. I longed for a home, for a wife.' - -'You were very poor once?' - -'Yes: I've lived on tenpence and a shilling a day. I've worked in the docks -as a labourer. I went down there hoping to get a clerkship on board one of -the Transatlantic steamers. I had had enough of England, and thought of -seeking fortune elsewhere.' - -'I can hardly believe you worked as a labourer in the docks.' - -'Yes; I did. I saw some men going to work, and I joined them. I don't think -I thought much about it at the time. A very little misery rubs all the -psychology out of us, and we return more easily than one thinks to the -animal.' - -'And then?' - -'At the end of a week the work began to tell upon me, and I drifted back in -search of my manuscript.' - -'But you must have been in a dreadful condition; your clothes----' - -'Ah! thereby hangs a tale. An actress lived in one of the houses I had been -lodging in.' - -'Oh, tell me about her! This is getting very interesting.' - -Then passing his arm round his wife's neck, and with her sweet blonde face -looking upon him, and the insinuating warmth of the fire about them, he -told her the story of his failure. - -'But,' she said, her voice trembling, 'you would not have committed -suicide?' - -'No man knows beforehand whether he will commit suicide. I can only say -that every other issue was closed.' - -At the end of a long silence Julia said, 'I wish you hadn't spoken about -suicide. I cannot but think of Emily. If she were to make away with -herself! The very possibility turns my heart to ice. What should I do--what -should we do? I ought never to have given way; we were both abominably -selfish. I can see that poor girl sitting alone in that house grieving her -heart out.' - -'You think that we ought never to have given way!' - -'I suppose we ought not. I tried very hard, you know I did.... But do you -regret?' she said, looking at him suddenly. - -'No; I don't regret, but I wish it had happened otherwise.' - -'You don't fear anything. Nothing will happen. What can happen?' - -'The most terrible things often happen--have happened.' - -'Emily may have been fond of me--I think she was; but it was no more than -the hysterical caprice of a young girl. Besides, people do not die for -love; and I assure you it will be all right. This is not a time for gloomy -thoughts.' - -'I'll try not to think of her. Well, what were we talking about? I know: -about the actress who lived in 17 Fitzroy Street. Tell me about her.' - -'She was a real good girl. If she hadn't lent me that five shillings, I -don't know where I should be now.' - -'Were you very fond of her?' - -'No; there never was anything of that sort between us. We were merely -friends.' - -'And what has become of this actress?' - -'You saw her to-night?' - -'Was she acting in the piece we saw to-night?' - -'It was she who played Lady Macbeth.' - -'You are joking.' - -'No, I'm not. I always knew she had genius, and they have found it out; but -I must say they have taken their time about it.' - -'How wonderful! she has succeeded!' - -'Yes, _she_ has succeeded!' - -'And she is really the girl you intended to play Lady Hayward?' - -'Yes; and I hope she will play the part one of these days.' - -'Of course, she is just the woman for it. What a splendid success she has -had! All London is talking about her.' - -'And I remember when Ford refused to cast her for the adventuress in -_Divorce_. If he had, there is no doubt she would have carried the piece -through. Life is but a bundle of chances; she has succeeded, whatever that -may mean.' - -'But you will let her have the part of Lady Hayward?' - -'Yes, of course--that is to say, if----' - -'Why "if"?' - -'My thoughts are with you, dear; literature seems to have passed out of -sight.' - -'But you must not sacrifice your talent in worship of me. I shall not allow -you. For my sake, if not for hers, you must finish that play. I want you to -be famous. I should be for ever miserable if my love proved a upas-tree.' - -'A upas-tree! It will be you who will help me; it will be your presence -that will help me to write my play. I was always vaguely conscious that you -were a necessary element in my life; but I did not wake up to any knowledge -of it until that day--do you remember?--when you came into my study to ask -me what fish I'd like for dinner, and I begged of you to allow me to read -to you that second act. It is that second act that stops me.' - -'I thought you had written the second act to your satisfaction. You said -that after the talk we had that afternoon you wrote for three hours without -stopping, and that you had never done better work.' - -'Yes, I wrote a great deal; but on reading it over I found that--I don't -mean to say that none of it will stand; some still seems to me to be all -right, but a great deal will require alteration.' - -The conversation fell. At the end of a long silence Hubert said-- - -'What are you thinking of, dearest?' - -'I was thinking that supposing you were mistaken--if I failed to help you -in your work.' - -'And I never succeeded in writing my play?' - -'No; I don't mean that. Of course you will write your play; all you have to -do is to be less critical.' - -'Yes, I know--I have heard that before; but, unfortunately, we cannot -change ourselves. I'll either carry my play through completely, realise my -ideal, or----' - -'Remain for ever unsatisfied?' - -'Whether I write it or no, I shall be happy in your love.' - -'Yes, yes; let us be happy.' - -They looked at each other. He did not speak, but his thought said-- - -'There is no happiness on earth for him who has not accomplished his task.' - -'Shall we be happy? I wonder. We have both suffered,' she said, 'we are -both tired of suffering, and it is only right that we should be happy.' - -'Yes, we shall be happy, I will be happy. It shall be my pleasure to attend -to you, to give you all your desire. But you said just now that you had -suffered. I have told you my past. Tell me yours. I know nothing except -that you were unhappily married.' - -'There is little else to know; a woman's life is not adventurous, like a -man's. I have not known the excitement of "first nights," nor the striving -and the craving for an artistic ideal. My life has been essentially a -woman's life,--suppression of self and monotonous duty, varied by -heart-breaking misfortune. I married when I was very young; before I had -even begun to think about life I found---- But why distress these hours -with painful memories?' - -'It is pleasant to look back on the troubles we have passed through.' - -'Well, I learnt in one year the meaning of three terrible words--poverty, -neglect, and cruelty. In the second year of my marriage my husband died of -drink, and I was left a widow at twenty, entirely penniless. I went to live -with my sister, and she was so poor that I had to support myself by giving -music-lessons. You think you know the meaning of poverty: you may; but you -do not know what a young woman who wants to earn her bread honestly has to -put up with, trudging through wet and cold, mile after mile, to give a -lesson, paid for at the rate of one-and-sixpence or two shillings an hour.' - -Julia took her eyes from her husband's face, and looked dreamily into the -fire. Then, raising her face from the flame, she looked around with the air -of one seeking for some topic of conversation. At that moment she caught -sight of the corner of a letter lying on the mantelpiece. Reaching forth -her hand, she took it. It was addressed to her husband. - -'Here is a letter for you, Hubert.... Why, it comes from Ashwood. Yes, and -it is in the hand-writing of one of the servants. Oh, it is Black's -writing! It may be about Emily. Something may have happened to her. Open it -quickly.' - -'That is not probable. Nothing can have happened to her.' - -'Look and see. Be quick!' - -Hubert opened the letter, and he had not read three lines when Julia's face -caught expression from his, which had become overcast. - -'It is bad news, I know. Something has happened. What is it? Don't keep me -waiting. The suspense is worse than the truth.' - -'It is very awful, Julia. Don't give way.' - -'Tell me what it is. Is she dead? - -'Yes; she is dead.' Julia got up from her husband's knees and stood by the -mantelpiece, leaning upon it. 'It is more than mere death.' - -'What do you mean? She killed herself--is that it?' - -'Yes; she drowned herself the night before last in the lake.' - -'Oh, it is too horrible! Then we have murdered her. Our unpardonable -selfishness! I cannot bear it!' Her eyes closed and her lips trembled. -Hubert caught her in his arms, laid her on the chair, and, fetching some -water in a tumbler, sprinkled her face; then he held it to her lips; she -drank a little, and revived. 'I'm not going to faint. Tell me--tell me when -the unfortunate child----' - -'They don't know exactly. She was in the drawing-room at tea-time, and the -drawing-room was empty when Black went round three-quarters of an hour -after to lock up. He thought she had gone to her room. It was the gardener -who brought in the news in the morning about nine.' - -'Oh, good God!' - -'Black says he noticed that she looked very depressed the day before, but -he thought she was looking better when he brought in the tea.' - -'It was then she got my letter. Does Black say anything about giving her a -letter?' - -'Yes, that is to say----' - -'I knew it! I knew it!' said Julia; and her eyes were wild with grief, and -she rocked herself to and fro. 'It was that letter that drove her to it. It -was most ill-advised. I told you so. You should have written. She would -have borne the news better had it come from you. My instinct told me so, -but I let myself be persuaded. I told you how it would happen. I told you. -You can't say I didn't. Oh! why did you persuade me--why--why--why?' - -'Julia dear, we are not responsible. We were in nowise bound to sacrifice -our happiness to her----' - -'Don't say a word! I say we were bound. Life can never be the same to me -again.' - -Hubert did not answer. Nothing he could say would be of the slightest -avail, and he feared to say anything that might draw from her expressions -which she would afterwards regret. He had never seen her moved like this, -nor did he believe her capable of such agitation, and the contrast of her -present with her usual demeanour made it the more impressive. - -'Oh,' she said, leaning forward and looking at him fixedly, 'take this -nightmare off my brain, or I shall go mad! It isn't true; it cannot be -true. But--oh! yes, it's true enough.' - -'Like you, Julia, I am overwhelmed; but we can do nothing.' - -'Do nothing!' she cried; 'do nothing! We can do nothing but pray for -her--we who sacrificed her.' And she slipped on her knees and burst into a -passionate fit of weeping. - -'The best thing that could have happened,' thought Hubert; and his thought -said, clearly and precisely, 'Yes; it is awful, shocking, cruel beyond -measure!' - -The fire was sinking, and he built it up quietly, ashamed of this proof of -his regard for physical comfort, and hoping it would pass unnoticed. His -pain expressed itself less vehemently than Julia's; but for all that his -mind ached. He remembered how he had taken everything from her--fortune, -happiness, and now life itself. It was an appalling tragedy--one of those -senseless cruelties which we find nature constantly inventing. A thought -revealed an unexpected analogy between him and his victim. In both lives -there had been a supreme desire, and both had failed. 'Hers was the better -part,' he said bitterly. 'Those whose souls are burdened with desire that -may not be gratified had better fling the load aside. They are fools who -carry it on to the end.... If it were not for Julia----' - -Then he sought to determine what were his exact feelings. He knew he was -infinitely sorry for poor Emily; but he could not stir himself into a -paroxysm of grief, and, ashamed of his inability to express his feelings, -he looked at Julia, who still wept. - -'No doubt,' he thought, 'women have keener feelings than we have.' - -At that moment Julia got up from her knees. She had brushed away her tears. -Her face was shaken with grief. - -'My heart is breaking,' she said. 'This is too cruel--too cruel! And on my -wedding night.' - -Their eyes met; and, divining each other's thought, each felt ashamed, and -Julia said-- - -'Oh, what am I saying? This dreadful selfishness, from which we cannot -escape, that is with us even in such a moment as this! That poor child gone -to her death, and yet amid it all we must think of ourselves.' - -'My dear Julia, we cannot escape from our human nature; but, for all that, -our grief is sincere. We can do nothing. Do not grieve like that.' - -'And why not? She was my best friend. How have I repaid her? Alas! as woman -always repays woman for kindness done. The old story. I cannot forgive -myself. No, no! do not kiss me! I cannot bear it. Leave me. I can see -nothing but Emily's reproachful face.' She covered her face in her hands -and sobbed again. - -The same scenes repeated themselves over and over again. The same fits of -passionate grief; the same moment of calm, when words impregnated with self -dropped from their lips. The same nervous sense that something of the dead -girl stood between them. And still they sat by the fire, weary with sorrow, -recrimination, long regret, and pain. They could grieve no more; and before -dawn sleep pressed upon their eyelids, and at the end of a long silence he -dozed--a pale, transparent sleep, through which the realities of life -appeared almost as plainly as before. Suddenly he awoke, and he shivered in -the chill room. The fire was sinking; dawn divided the window-curtains. He -looked at his wife. She seemed to him very beautiful as she slept, her face -turned a little on one side, and again he asked himself if he loved her. -Then, going to the window, he drew the curtains softly, so as not to awaken -her; and as he stood watching a thin discoloured day breaking over the -roofs, it again seemed to him that Emily's suicide was the better part. -'Those who do not perform their task in life are never happy.' The words -drilled themselves into his brain with relentless insistency. He felt a -terrible emptiness within him which he could not fill. He looked at his -wife and quailed a little at the thought that had suddenly come upon him. -She was something like himself--that was why he had married her. We are -attracted by what is like ourselves. Emily's passion might have stirred -him. Now he would have to settle down to live with Julia, and their similar -natures would grow more and more like one another. Then, turning on his -thoughts, he dismissed them. They were the morbid feverish fancies of an -exceptional, of a terrible night. He opened the window quietly so as not to -awaken his wife. And in the melancholy greyness of the dawn he looked down -into the street and wondered what the end would be. - -He did not think that he would live long. Disappointed men--those who have -failed in their ambition--do not live to make old bones. There were men -like him in every profession--the arts are crowded with them. He had met -barristers and soldiers and clergy-men, just like himself. One hears of -their deaths--failure of the heart's action, paralysis of the brain, a -hundred other medical causes--but the real cause is, lack of appreciation. - -He would hang on for another few years, no doubt; during that time he must -try to make his wife happy. His duty was now to be a good husband, at all -events, there was that. - -His wife lay asleep in the arm-chair, and fearing she might catch cold, he -came into the room closing the window very gently behind him. - -THE END - -Printed by T. and A. Constable, printers to Her Majesty at the Edinburgh -University Press. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11303 *** diff --git a/old/old-2025-03-07/11303-h.zip b/old/old-2025-03-07/11303-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 9be286f..0000000 --- a/old/old-2025-03-07/11303-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/old-2025-03-07/11303-h/11303-h.htm b/old/old-2025-03-07/11303-h/11303-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 9c0ef14..0000000 --- a/old/old-2025-03-07/11303-h/11303-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6910 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> -<html lang="en"> - -<head> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1"> -<title>George Moore (1852-1933): Vain Fortune (1895)</title> -<style type="text/css" title="Web"> -<!-- -/* -four classes used: -- image for the image containers -- pb page breaks -- caps capitalized text -- small-caps text in small-caps -*/ - -div.image - { - border: 2px solid #999; - padding: .5em; - float: none; - } - -div.image img - { - margin-right: .5em; - border: 2px solid #999; - float: left; - } - -.caps { text-transform: uppercase; } - -.small-caps { font-variant: small-caps; } - -br { clear: both; } ---> -</style> -</head> - -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Vain Fortune, by George Moore - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Vain Fortune - -Author: George Moore - -Release Date: June 7, 2004 [EBook #11303] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VAIN FORTUNE *** - - - - -Produced by Jon Ingram, Branko Collin and PG Distributed Proofreaders - - - - - -</pre> - - -<a name="001.png" class="pb"></a> - -<div class="image"><a href="images/image01.jpeg"><img src="images/image01-thumb.jpeg" -alt="[drawing]" align="left"></a> "She slipped on her knees, and -burst into a passionate fit of weeping."</div> - -<br> - -<a name="002.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h1><span class="caps">Vain Fortune</span></h1> - -<h2><span class="caps">A Novel</span></h2> - -<h3><span class="caps">By</span></h3> - -<h3><span class="caps">George Moore</span></h3> - -<h3><i><span class="caps">With Five Illustrations</span> By</i> <i><span -class="caps">Maurice Greiffenhagen</span></i></h3> <span class="caps">New -Edition</span> <span class="caps">Completely Revised</span> <span -class="caps">London: Walter Scott, Ltd.</span> <span -class="caps">Paternoster Square</span> 1895 - -<a name="003.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>Edinburgh: T. and A. <span class="small-caps">Constable</span>, Printers -to Her Majesty</p> - -<a id="pv"></a> - -<h2><span class="caps">Prefatory Note</span></h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">I hope</span> it will not seem presumptuous to -ask my critics to treat this new edition of <i>Vain Fortune</i> as a new -book: for it is a new book. The first edition was kindly noticed, but it -attracted little attention, and very rightly, for the story as told therein -was thin and insipid; and when Messrs. Scribner proposed to print the book -in America, I stipulated that I should be allowed to rewrite it. They -consented, and I began the story with Emily Watson, making her the -principal character instead of Hubert Price. Some months after I received a -letter from Madam Couperus, offering to translate the English edition into -Dutch. I sent her the American edition, and asked her which she would -prefer to translate from. Madam Couperus replied that many things in the -English edition, which she would like to retain, had been omitted from the -American edition, that the hundred or more pages <a id="pvi"></a> which I -had written for the American edition seemed to her equally worthy of -retention.</p> - -<p>She pointed out that, without the alteration of a sentence, the two -versions could be combined. The idea had not occurred to me; I saw, -however, that what she proposed was not only feasible but advantageous. I -wrote, therefore, giving her the required permission, and thanking her for -a suggestion which I should avail myself of when the time came for a new -English edition.</p> - -<p>The union of the texts was no doubt accomplished by Madam Couperus, -without the alteration of a sentence; but no such accomplished editing is -possible to me; I am a victim to the disease of rewriting, and the -inclusion of the hundred or more pages of new matter written for the -American edition led me into a third revision of the story. But no more -than in the second has the skeleton, or the attitude of the skeleton been -altered in this third version, only flesh and muscle have been added, and, -I think, a little life. <i>Vain Fortune</i>, even in its present form, is -probably <a id="pvii"></a> not my best book, but it certainly is far from -being my worst. But my opinion regarding my own work is of no value; I do -not write this Prefatory Note to express it, but to ask my critics and my -readers to forget the original <i>Vain Fortune</i>, and to read this new -book as if it were issued under another title.</p> - -<p>G.M.</p> - -<a name="007.png" class="pb"></a> - -<a name="008.png" class="pb"></a> - -<hr> - -<h2>I</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">The</span> lamp had not been wiped, and the -room smelt slightly of paraffin. The old window-curtains, whose harsh green -age had not softened, were drawn. The mahogany sideboard, the threadbare -carpet, the small horsehair sofa, the gilt mirror, standing on a white -marble chimney-piece, said clearly, 'Furnished apartments in a house built -about a hundred years ago.' There were piles of newspapers, there were -books on the mahogany sideboard and on the horsehair sofa, and on the table -there were various manuscripts,—<i>The Gipsy</i>, Act I.; <i>The -Gipsy</i>, Act III., Scenes iii. and iv.</p> - -<p>A sheet of foolscap paper, and upon it a long slender hand. The hand -traced a few lines of fine, beautiful caligraphy, then it paused, -correcting with extreme care <a name="009.png" class="pb"></a> what was -already written, and in a hesitating, minute way, telling of a brain that -delighted in the correction rather than in the creation of form.</p> - -<p>The shirt-cuff was frayed and dirty. The coat was thin and shiny. A -half-length figure of a man drew out of the massed shadows between the -window and sideboard. The red beard caught the light, and the wavy brown -hair brightened. Then a look of weariness, of distress, passed over the -face, and the man laid down the pen, and, taking some tobacco from a paper, -rolled a cigarette. Rising, and leaning forward, he lighted it over the -lamp. He was a man of about thirty—six feet, broad-shouldered, well-built, -healthy, almost handsome.</p> - -<p>The time he spent in dreaming his play amounted to six times, if not ten -times, as much as he devoted to trying to write it; and he now lit -cigarette after cigarette, abandoning himself to every meditation,—the -unpleasantness of life in lodgings, the charm of foreign travel, the beauty -of the south, what he would do if his play succeeded. He plunged into -calculation of the time it would take him to finish it if he were to sit at -home all day, working from seven to ten hours every day. If he could but -make up his mind concerning the beginning and the middle of the third act, -and <a name="010.png" class="pb"></a> about the end, too,—the -solution,—he felt sure that, with steady work, the play could be completed -in a fortnight. In such reverie and such consideration he lay immersed, -oblivious of the present moment, and did not stir from his chair until the -postman shook the frail walls with a violent double knock. He hoped for a -letter, for a newspaper—either would prove a welcome distraction. The -servant's footsteps on the stairs told him the post had brought him -something. His heart sank at the thought that it was probably only a bill, -and he glanced at all the bills lying one above another on the table.</p> - -<p>It was not a bill, nor yet an advertisement, but a copy of a weekly -review. He tore it open. An article about himself!</p> - -<p>After referring to the deplorable condition of the modern stage, the -writer pointed out how dramatic writing has of late years come to be -practised entirely by men who have failed in all other branches of -literature. Then he drew attention to the fact that signs of weariness and -dissatisfaction with the old stale stories, the familiar tricks in bringing -about 'striking situations,' were noticeable, not only in the newspaper -criticisms of new plays, but also among the better portion of the audience. -He admitted, however, that hitherto the attempts made by younger writers in -the <a name="011.png" class="pb"></a> direction of new subject-matter and -new treatment had met with little success. But this, he held, was not a -reason for discouragement. Did those who believed in the old formulas -imagine that the new formula would be discovered straight away, without -failures preliminary? Besides, these attempts were not utterly despicable; -at least one play written on the new lines had met with some measure of -success, and that play was Mr. Hubert Price's <i>Divorce</i>.</p> - -<p>'Yes, the fellow is right. The public is ready for a good play: it -wasn't when <i>Divorce</i> was given. I must finish <i>The Gipsy</i>. There -are good things in it; that I know. But I wish I could get that third act -right. The public will accept a masterpiece, but it will not accept an -attempt to write a masterpiece. But this time there'll be no falling off in -the last acts. The scene between the gipsy lover and the young lord will -fetch 'em.' Taking up the review, Hubert glanced over the article a second -time. 'How anxious the fellows are for me to achieve a success! How they -believe in me! They desire it more than I do. They believe in me more than -I do in myself. They want to applaud me. They are hungry for the -masterpiece.'</p> - -<p>At that moment his eye was caught by some letters written on blue paper. -His face resumed a wearied <a name="012.png" class="pb"></a> and hunted -expression. 'There's no doubt about it, money I must get somehow. I am -running it altogether too fine. There isn't twenty pounds between me and -the deep sea.'</p> - -<div> </div> <!-- pause --> - -<p>He was the son of the Rev. James Price, a Shropshire clergyman. The -family was of Welsh extraction, but in Hubert none of the physical -characteristics of the Celt appeared. He might have been selected as a -typical Anglo-Saxon. The face was long and pale, and he wore a short -reddish beard; the eyes were light blue, verging on grey, and they seemed -to speak a quiet, steadfast soul. Hubert had always been his mother's -favourite, and the scorn of his elder brothers, two rough boys, addicted in -early youth to robbing orchards, and later on to gambling and drinking. The -elder, after having broken his father's heart with debts and disgraceful -living, had gone out to the Cape. News of his death came to the Rectory -soon after; but James's death did not turn Henry from his evil courses, and -one day his father and mother had to go to London on his account, and they -brought him back a hopeless invalid. Hubert was twelve years of age when he -followed his brother to the grave.</p> - -<a name="013.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>It was at his brother's funeral that Hubert met for the first time his -uncle, Mr. Burnett. Mr. Burnett had spent the greater part of his life in -New Zealand, where he had made a large fortune by sheep-farming and -investments in land. He had seemed to be greatly taken with his nephew, and -for many years it was understood that he would leave him the greater part, -if not the whole, of his fortune. But Mr. Burnett had come under the -influence of some poor relations, some distant cousins, the Watsons, and -had eventually decided to adopt their daughter Emily and leave her his -fortune. He did not dare intimate his change of mind to his sister; but the -news having reached Mrs. Price in various rumours, she wrote to her brother -asking him to confirm or deny these rumours; and when he admitted their -truth, Mrs. Price never spoke to him again. She was a determined woman, and -the remembrance of the wrong done to her son never left her.</p> - -<p>While the other children had been a torment and disgrace, Hubert had -been to his parents a consolation and a blessing. They had feared that he -too might turn to betting and drink, but he had never shown sign of low -tastes. He played no games, nor did he care for terriers or horses; but for -books and drawing, <a name="014.png" class="pb"></a> and long country -walks. Immediately on hearing of his disinheritance he had spoken at once -of entering a profession; and for many months this was the subject of -consideration in the Rectory. Hubert joined in these discussions willingly, -but he could not bring himself to accept the army or the bar. It was indeed -only necessary to look at him to see that neither soldier's tunic nor -lawyer's wig was intended for him; and it was nearly as clear that those -earnest eyes, so intelligent and yet so undetermined in their gaze, were -not those of a doctor.</p> - -<p>But if his eyes failed to predict his future, his hands told the story -of his life distinctly enough—those long, white, languid hands, what could -they mean but art? And very soon Hubert began to draw, evincing some -natural aptitude. Then an artist came into the neighbourhood, the two -became friends, and went together on a long sketching tour. Life in the -open air, the shade of the hedge, the glare of the highway, the meditation -of the field, the languor of the river-side, the contemplation of wooded -horizons, was what Hubert's pastoral nature was most fitted to enjoy; and, -for the sake of the life it afforded him, he pursued the calling of a -landscape painter long after he had begun to feel his desire turning in -another direction. When <a name="015.png" class="pb"></a> the landscape on -the canvas seemed hopelessly inadequate, he laid aside the brush for the -pencil, and strove to interpret the summer fields in verse. From verse he -drifted into the article and the short story, and from the story into the -play. And it was in this last form that he felt himself strongest, and -various were the dramas and comedies that he dreamed from year's end to -year's end.</p> - -<p>While he was in the midst of his period of verse-writing his mother -died, and in the following year, just as he was working at his stories, he -received a telegram calling him to attend his father's death-bed. When the -old man was laid in the shadow of the weather-beaten village church, Hubert -gathered all his belongings and bade farewell for ever to the Shropshire -rectory.</p> - -<p>In London Hubert made few friends. There were some two or three men with -whom he was frequently seen—quiet folk like himself, whose enjoyment -consisted in smoking a tranquil pipe in the evening, or going for long -walks in the country. He was one of those men whose indefiniteness provokes -curiosity, and his friends noticed and wondered why it was that he was so -frequently the theme of their conversation. His simple, unaffected manners -were full of suggestion, <a name="016.png" class="pb"></a> and in his -writings there was always an indefinable rainbow-like promise of ultimate -achievement. So, long before he had succeeded in writing a play, detached -scenes and occasional verses led his friends into gradual belief that he -was one from whom big things might be expected. And when the one-act play -which they had all so heartily approved of was produced, and every -newspaper praised it for its literary quality, the friends took pride in -this public vindication of their opinion. After the production of his play -people came to see the new author, and every Saturday evening some fifteen -or twenty men used to assemble in Hubert's lodgings to drink whisky, smoke -cigars, and talk drama. Encouraged by his success, Hubert wrote -<i>Divorce</i>. He worked unceasingly upon it for more than a year, and -when he had written the final scene, he was breaking into his last hundred -pounds. The play was refused twice, and then accepted by a theatrical -speculator, to whom it seemed to afford opportunity for the exhibition of -the talents of a lady he was interested in.</p> - -<p>The success of the play was brief. But before it was withdrawn, Hubert -had sold the American rights for a handsome sum, and within the next two -years he had completed a second play, which he <a name="017.png" -class="pb"></a> called <i>An Ebbing Tide</i>. Some of the critics argued -that it contained scenes as fine as any in <i>Divorce</i>, but it was -admitted on all sides that the interest withered in the later acts. But the -failure of the play did not shake the established belief in Hubert's -genius; it merely concentrated the admiration of those interested in the -new art upon <i>Divorce</i>, the partial failure of which was now -attributed to the acting. If it had only been played at the Haymarket or -the Lyceum, it could not have failed.</p> - -<p>The next three years Hubert wasted in various aestheticisms. He -explained the difference between the romantic and realistic methods in the -reviews; he played with a poetic drama to be called <i>The King of the -Beggars</i>, and it was not until the close of the third year that he -settled down to definite work. Then all his energies were concentrated on a -new play—<i>The Gipsy</i>. A young woman of Bohemian origin is suddenly -taken with the nostalgia of the tent, and leaves her husband and her home -to wander with those of her race. He had read portions of this play to his -friends, who at last succeeded in driving Montague Ford, the popular -actor-manager, to Hubert's door; and after hearing some few scenes he had -offered a couple of hundred pounds in advance of fees <a name="018.png" -class="pb"></a> for the completed manuscript. 'But when can I have the -manuscript?' said Ford, as he was about to leave. 'As soon as I can finish -it,' Hubert replied, looking at him wistfully out of pale blue-grey eyes. -'I could finish it in a month, if I could count on not being worried by -duns or disturbed by friends during that time.'</p> - -<p>Ford looked at Hubert questioningly; then he said 'I have always noticed -that when a fellow wants to finish a play, the only way to do it is to go -away to the country and leave no address.'</p> - -<p>But the country was always so full of pleasure for him, that he doubted -his power to remain indoors with the temptation of fields and rivers before -his eyes, and he thought that to escape from dunning creditors it would be -sufficient to change his address. So he left Norfolk Street for the more -remote quarter of Fitzroy Street, where he took a couple of rooms on the -second floor. One of his fellow-lodgers, he soon found, was Rose Massey, an -actress engaged for the performance of small parts at the Queen's Theatre. -The first time he spoke to her was on the doorstep. She had forgotten her -latch-key, and he said, 'Will you allow me to let you in?' She stepped -aside, but did not answer him. Hubert thought her rude, but her strange -eyes <a name="019.png" class="pb"></a> and absent-minded manner had piqued -his curiosity, and, having nothing to do that night, he went to the theatre -to see her act. She was playing a very small part, and one that was -evidently unsuited to her—a part that was in contradiction to her nature; -but there was something behind the outer envelope which led him to believe -she had real talent, and would make a name for herself when she was given a -part that would allow her to reveal what was in her.</p> - -<p>In the meantime, Rose had been told that the gentleman she had snubbed -in the passage was Mr. Hubert Price, the author of <i>Divorce</i>.</p> - -<p>'Oh, it was very silly of me,' she said to Annie. 'If I had only -known!'</p> - -<p>'Lor', he don't mind; he'll be glad enough to speak to you when you -meets him again.'</p> - -<p>And when they met again on the stairs, Rose nodded familiarly, and -Hubert said—</p> - -<p>'I went to the Queen's the other night.'</p> - -<p>'Did you like the piece?'</p> - -<p>'I did not care about the piece; but when you get a wild, passionate -part to play, you'll make a hit. The sentimental parts they give you don't -suit you.'</p> - -<p>A sudden light came into the languid face. 'Yes, I shall do something if -I can get a part like that.'</p> - -<a name="020.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>Hubert told her that he was writing a play containing just such a -part.</p> - -<p>Her eyes brightened again. 'Will you read me the play?' she said, fixing -her dark, dreamy eyes on him.</p> - -<p>'I shall be very glad.... Do you think it won't bore you?' And his -wistful grey eyes were full of interrogation.</p> - -<p>'No, I'm sure it won't.'</p> - -<p>And a few days after she sent Annie with a note, reminding him of his -promise to read her what he had written. As she had only a bedroom, the -reading had to take place in his sitting-room. He read her the first and -second acts. She was all enthusiasm, and begged hard to be allowed to study -the part—just to see what she could do with it—just to let him see that -he was not mistaken in her. Her interest in his work captivated him, and he -couldn't refuse to lend her the manuscript.</p> - -<a name="021.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>II</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">Rose</span> often came to see Hubert in his -rooms. Her manner was disappointing, and he thought he must be mistaken in -his first judgment of her talents. But one afternoon she gave him a -recitation of the sleep-walking scene in <i>Macbeth</i>. It was strange to -see this little dark-complexioned, dark-eyed girl, the merest handful of -flesh and bone, divest herself at will of her personality, and assume the -tragic horror of Lady Macbeth, or the passionate rapture of Juliet -detaining her husband-lover on the balcony of her chamber. Hubert watched -in wonderment this girl, so weak and languid in her own nature, awaking -only to life when she assumed the personality of another. There she lay, -her wispy form stretched in his arm-chair, her great dark eyes fixed, her -mind at rest, sunk in some inscrutable dream. Her thin hand lay on the arm -of the chair: when she woke from her day-dream she burst into irresponsible -laughter, or questioned him with petulant curiosity. He looked again: her -dark curling <a name="022.png" class="pb"></a> hair hung on her swarthy -neck, and she was somewhat untidily dressed in blue linen.</p> - -<p>'Were you ever in love?' she said suddenly. 'I don't suppose you could -be; you are too occupied with your play. I don't know, though; you might be -in love, but I don't think that many women would be in love with you.... -You are too good a man, and women don't like good men.'</p> - -<p>Hubert laughed, and without a trace of offended vanity in his voice he -said, 'I don't profess to be much of a lady-killer.'</p> - -<p>'You don't know what I mean,' she said, looking at him fixedly, a maze -of half-childish, half-artistic curiosity in her handsome eyes.</p> - -<p>Perplexed in his shy, straightford nature, Hubert inquired if she took -sugar in her tea. She said she did; stretched her feet to the fire, and -lapsed into dream. She was one of the enigmas of Stageland. She supported -herself, and went about by herself, looking a poor, lost little thing. She -spoke with considerable freedom of language on all subjects, but no one had -been able to fix a lover upon her.</p> - -<p>'What a part Lady Hayward is! But tell me,—I don't quite catch your -meaning in the second act. Is this it?' and starting to her feet, she -became in a <a name="023.png" class="pb"></a> moment another being. With a -gesture, a look, an intonation, she was the woman of the play,—a woman -taken by an instinct, long submerged, but which has floated to the surface, -and is beginning to command her actions. In another moment she had slipped -back into her weary lymphatic nature, at once prematurely old and -extravagantly childish. She could not talk of indifferent things; and -having asked some strange questions, and laughed loudly, she wished Hubert -'Good-afternoon' in her curious, irresponsible fashion, taking her leave -abruptly.</p> - -<p>The next two days Hubert devoted entirely to his play. There were things -in it which he knew were good, but it was incomplete. Montague Ford would -not produce it in its present form. He must put his shoulder to the wheel -and get it right; one more push, that was all that was wanted. And he could -be heard walking to and fro, up and down, along and across his tiny -sitting-room, stopping suddenly to take a note of an idea that had occurred -to him.</p> - -<p>One day he went to Hampstead Heath. A long walk, he thought, would clear -his mind, and he returned home thinking of his play. The sunset still -glittering in the skies; the bare trees were beautifully distinct on the -blue background of the suburban street, <a name="024.png" class="pb"></a> -and at the end of the long perspective, a 'bus and a hansom could be seen -coming towards him. As they grew larger, his thoughts defined themselves, -and the distressing problem of his fourth act seemed to solve itself. That -very evening he would sketch out a new dramatic movement around which all -the other movements of the act would cluster. But at the corner of Fitzroy -Square, within a few yards of No. 17, he was accosted by a shabbily-dressed -man, who inquired if he were Mr. Price. On being answered in the -affirmative, the shabbily-dressed man said, 'Then I have something for ye; -I have been a-watching for ye for the last three days, but ye didn't come -out; missed yer this morning: 'ere it is;' and he thrust a folded paper -into Hubert's hand.</p> - -<p>'What is this?'</p> - -<p>'Don't yer know?' he said with a grin; 'Messrs. Tomkins & Co., -Tailors, writ—twenty-two pound odd.'</p> - -<p>Hubert made no answer; he put the paper in his pocket, opened the door -quietly, stole up to his room, and sat down to think. The first thing to do -was to examine into his finances. It was alarming to find that he was -breaking into his last five-pound note. True that he was close on the end -of his play, and when it was finished he would be able to draw on Ford. But -a <a name="025.png" class="pb"></a> summons to appear in the county court -could not fail to do him immense injury. He had heard of avoiding service, -but he knew little of the law, and wondered what power the service of the -writ gave his creditor over him. His instinct was to escape—hide himself -where they would not be able to find him, and so obtain time to finish his -play. But he owed his landlady money, and his departure would have to be -clandestine. As he reflected on how many necessaries he might carry away in -a newspaper, he began to feel strangely like a criminal, and while rolling -up a couple of shirts, a few pairs of socks, and some collars, he paused, -his hands resting on the parcel. He did not seem to know himself, and it -was difficult to believe that he really intended to leave the house in this -disreputable fashion. Mechanically he continued to add to his parcel, -thinking all the while that he must go, otherwise his play would never be -written.</p> - -<p>He had been working very well for the last few days, and now he saw his -way quite clearly; the inspiration he had been so long waiting for had come -at last, and he felt sure of his fourth act. At the same time he wished to -conduct himself honestly, even in this distressing situation. Should he -tell his landlady the truth? But the desire to realise his idea was -intolerable, <a name="026.png" class="pb"></a> and, yielding as if before -an irresistible force, he tied the parcel and prepared to go. At that -moment he remembered that he must leave a note for his landlady, and he was -more than ever surprised at the naturalness with which lying phrases came -into his head. But when it came to committing them to paper, he found he -could not tell an absolute lie, and he wrote a simple little note to the -effect that he had been called away on urgent business, and hoped to return -in about a week.</p> - -<p>He descended the stairs softly. Mrs. Wilson's sitting-room opened on to -the passage; she might step out at any moment, and intercept his exit. He -had nearly reached the last flight when he remembered that he had forgotten -his manuscripts. His flesh turned cold, his heart stood still. There was -nothing for it but to ascend those creaking stairs again. His already -heavily encumbered pockets could not be persuaded to receive more than a -small portion of the manuscripts. He gathered them in his hand, and -prepared to redescend the perilous stairs. He walked as lightly as -possible, dreading that every creak would bring Mrs. Wilson from her -parlour. A few more steps, and he would be in the passage. A smell of dust, -sounds of children crying, children talking in the kitchen! A few more -steps, and, with his eyes on the parlour door, <a name="027.png" -class="pb"></a> Hubert had reached the rug at the foot of the stairs. He -hastened along, the passage. Mrs. Wilson was a moment too late. His hand -was on the street-door when she appeared at the door of her parlour.</p> - -<p>'Mr. Price, I want to speak to you before you go out. There has——'</p> - -<p>'I can't wait—running to catch a train. You'll find a letter on my -table. It will explain.'</p> - -<p>Hubert slipped out, closed the door, and ran down the street, and it was -not until he had put two or three streets between him and Fitzroy Street -that he relaxed his pace, and could look behind him without dreading to -feel the hand of the 'writter' upon his shoulder.</p> - -<a name="028.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>III</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">Then</span> he wandered, not knowing where he -was going, still in the sensation of his escape, a little amused, and yet -with a shadow of fear upon his soul, for he grew more and more conscious of -the fact that he was homeless, if not quite penniless. Suddenly he stopped -walking. Night was thickening in the street, and he had to decide where he -would sleep. He could not afford to pay more than five or six shillings a -week for a room, and he thought of Holloway, as being a neighbourhood where -creditors would not be able to find him. So he retraced his steps, and, -tired and footsore, entered the Tottenham Court Road by the Oxford Street -end.</p> - -<p>There the omnibuses stopped. A conductor shouted for fares, with the -light of the public-house lamps on his open mouth. There was smell of mud, -of damp clothes, of bad tobacco, and where the lights of the costermongers' -barrows broke across the footway the picture was of a group of three -coarse, loud-voiced girls, <a name="029.png" class="pb"></a> followed by -boys. There were fish shops, cheap Italian restaurants, and the long lines -of low houses vanished in crapulent night. The characteristics of the -Tottenham Court Road impressed themselves on Hubert's mind, and he thought -how he would have to bear for at least three weeks with all the grime of -its poverty. It would take about that time to finish his play, and the -neighbourhood would suit his purpose excellently well. So long as he did -not pass beyond it he ran little risk of discovery, and to secure himself -against friends and foes he penetrated farther northward, not stopping till -he reached the confines of Holloway.</p> - -<p>Then a little dim street caught his eye, and he knocked at the door of -the first house exhibiting a card in the parlour window. But they did not -let their bedroom under seven shillings, and this seemed to Hubert to be an -extravagant price. He tried farther on, and at last found a clean room for -six shillings. Having no luggage, he paid a week's rent in advance, and the -landlady promised to get him a small table, on which he could write, a -small table that would fit in somewhere near the window. She asked him when -he would like to be called, and put the candlestick on the chair. Hubert -looked round the room, and a moment sufficed to complete the survey. It was -about seven <a name="030.png" class="pb"></a> feet long. The lower half of -the window was curtained by a piece of muslin hardly bigger than a -good-sized pocket-handkerchief; to do anything in this room except to lie -in bed seemed difficult, and Hubert sat down on the bed and emptied out his -pockets. He had just four pounds, and the calculation how long he could -live on such a sum took him some time. His breakfast, whether he had it at -home or in the coffee-house, would cost him at least fourpence. He thought -he would be able to obtain a fairly good dinner in one of the little -Italian restaurants for ninepence. His tea would cost the same as his -breakfast. To these sums he must add twopence for tobacco and a penny for -an evening paper—impossible to do without tobacco, and he must know what -was going on in the world. He could therefore live for one shilling and -eightpence a day—eleven shillings a week—to which he would have to add -six shillings a week for rent, altogether seventeen shillings a week. He -really did not see how he could do it cheaper. Four times seventeen are -sixty-eight; sixty-eight shillings for a month of life, and he had eighty -shillings—twelve shillings for incidental expenses; and out of that twelve -shillings he must buy a shirt, a sponge, and a tooth brush, and when they -were bought there would be very little left. He must finish his <a -name="031.png" class="pb"></a> play under the month. Nothing could be -clearer than that.</p> - -<p>Next morning he asked the landlady to let him have a cup of tea and some -bread and butter, and he ate as much bread as he could, to save himself -from being hungry in the middle of the day. He began work immediately, and -continued until seven, and feeling then somewhat light-headed, but -satisfied with himself, went to the nearest Italian restaurant. The food -was better than he expected; but he spent twopence more than he had -intended, so, to accustom himself to a life of strict measure and -discipline, he determined to forego his tea that evening. And so he lived -and worked until the end of the week.</p> - -<p>But the situation he had counted on to complete his fourth act had -proved almost impracticable in the working out; he laboured on, however, -and at the end of the tenth day at least one scene satisfied him. He read -it over slowly, carefully, thought about it, decided that it was excellent, -and lay down on his bed to consider it. At that moment it struck him that -he had better calculate how much he had spent in the last ten days. He -gathered himself into a sitting posture and counted his money; he had spent -thirty shillings, and at that rate his money would not hold out till the -end <a name="032.png" class="pb"></a> of the month. He must reduce his -expenditure; but how? Impossible to find a room where he could live more -cheaply than in the one he had got, and it is not easy to dine in London on -less than ninepence. Only the poor can live cheaply. He pressed his hands -to his face. His head seemed like splitting, and his monetary difficulty, -united with his literary difficulties, produced a momentary insanity. Work -that morning was impossible, so he went out to study the eating-houses of -the neighbourhood. He must find one where he could dine for sixpence. Or he -might buy a pound of cooked beef and take it home with him in a paper bag; -but that would seem an almost intolerable imprisonment in his little room. -He could go to a public-house and dine off a sausage and potato. But at -that moment his attention was caught by black letters on a dun, yellowish -ground: 'Lockhart's Cocoa Rooms.' Not having breakfasted, he decided to -have a cup of cocoa and a roll.</p> - -<p>It was a large, barn-like place, the walls covered with a coat of -grey-blue paint. Under the window there was a zinc counter, with zinc urns -always steaming, emiting odours of tea, coffee, and cocoa. The seats were -like those which give a garden-like appearance to the tops of some -omnibuses. Each was made to hold <a name="033.png" class="pb"></a> two -persons, and the table between them was large enough for four plates and -four pairs of hands. A few hollow-chested men, the pale vagrants of -civilisation, drowsed in the corners. They had been hunted through the -night by the policeman, and had come in for something hot. Hubert noted the -worn frock-coats, and the miserable arms coming out of shirtless sleeves. -One looked up inquiringly, and Hubert thought how slight had become the -line that divided him from the outcast. A serving-maid collected the -plates, knives and forks, when the customers left, and carried them back to -the great zinc counter.</p> - -<p>Impressed by his appearance, she brought him what he had ordered and -took the money for it, although the custom of the place was for the -customer to pay for food at the counter and carry it himself to the table -at which he chose to eat. Hubert learnt that there was no set dinner, but -there was a beef-steak pudding at one, price fourpence, a penny potatoes, a -penny bread. So by dining at Lockhart's he would be able to cut down his -daily expense by at least twopence; that would extend the time to finish -his play by nearly a week. And if his appetite were not keen, he could -assuage it with a penny plum pudding; or he could take a middle course, -making his dinner off a sausage <a name="034.png" class="pb"></a> and -mashed potatoes. The room was clean, well lighted, and airy; he could read -his paper there, and forget his troubles in the observation of character. -He even made friends. An old wizen creature, who had been a prize-fighter, -told him of his triumphs. If he hadn't broke his hand on somebody's nose -he'd have been champion light-weight of England. 'And to think that I have -come to this,' he added emphatically. 'Even them boys knock me about now, -and 'alf a century ago I could 'ave cleared the bloomin' place.' There was -a merry little waif from the circus who loved to come and sit with Hubert. -She had been a rider, she said, but had broken her leg on one occasion, and -cut her head all open on another, and had ended by running away with some -one who had deserted her. 'So here I am,' she remarked, with a burst of -laughter, 'talking to you. Did you never hear of Dolly Dayrell?' Hubert -confessed that he had not. 'Why,' she said, 'I thought every one had.'</p> - -<p>About eight o'clock in the evening, the table near the stairs was -generally occupied by flower-girls, dressed in dingy clothes, and brightly -feathered hats. They placed their empty baskets on the floor, and shouted -at their companions—men who sold newspapers, boot-laces, and cheap toys. -About nine the boys came in, <a name="035.png" class="pb"></a> the boys who -used to push the old prize-fighter about, and Hubert soon began to perceive -how representative they were of all vices—gambling, theft, idleness, and -cruelty were visible in their faces. They were led by a Jew boy who sold -penny jewellery at the corner of Oxford Street, and they generally made for -the tables at the end of the room, for there, unless custom was slack -indeed, they could defeat the vigilance of the serving-maid and play at nap -at their ease. The tray of penny jewellery was placed at the corner of a -table, and a small boy set to watch over it. His duty was also to shuffle -his feet when the servant-maid approached, and a precious drubbing he got -if he failed to shuffle them loud enough. The ''ot un,' as he was -nicknamed, always had a pack of cards in his pocket, and to annex -everything left on the tables he considered to be his privilege. One day, -when he was asked how he came by the fine carnation in his buttonhole, he -said it was a present from Sally, neglecting to add that he had told the -child to steal it from a basket which a flower-girl had just put down.</p> - -<a name="036.png" class="pb"></a> - -<div class="image"><a href="images/image02.jpeg"><img src="images/image02-thumb.jpeg" -align="left" alt="[drawing]"></a> - -"'A dirty, hignominious lot, them boys is.'"</div> - -<br> - -<a name="037.png" class="pb"></a> - -<a name="038.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>Hubert hated this boy, and once could not resist boxing his ears. The -''ot un' writhed easily out of his reach, and then assailed him with foul -language, and so loud were his words that they awoke the innocent cause of -the quarrel, a weak, sickly-looking man, with pale blue eyes and a blonde -beard. Hubert had protected him before now against the brutality of the -boys, who, when they were not playing nap, divided their pleasantries -between him and the decrepit prize-fighter. He came in about nine, took a -cup of coffee from the counter, and settled himself for a snooze. The boys -knew this, and it was their amusement to keep him awake by pelting him with -egg-shells and other missiles. Hubert noticed that he had always with him a -red handkerchief full of some sort of loose rubbish, which the boys -gathered when it fell about the floor, or purloined from the handkerchief -when they judged that the owner was sufficiently fast asleep. Hubert now -saw that the handkerchief was filled with bits of coloured chalk, and -guessed that the man must be a pavement artist.</p> - -<p>'A dirty, hignominious lot, them boys is,' said the artist, fixing his -pale, melancholy eyes on Hubert; 'bad manners, no eddication, and, above -all, no respect.'</p> - -<p>'They are an unmannerly lot—that Jew boy especially. I don't think -there's a vice he hasn't got.'</p> - -<p>The artist stared at Hubert a long time in silence. A thought seemed to -be stirring in his mind.</p> - -<p>'I'm speaking, I can see, to a man of eddication. <a name="039.png" -class="pb"></a> I'm a fust-rate judge of character, though I be but a -pavement artist; but a picture's none the less a picture, no matter where -it is drawn. That's true, ain't it?'</p> - -<p>'Quite true. A horse is a horse, and an ass is an ass, no matter what -stable you put them into.'</p> - -<p>The artist laughed a guttural laugh, and, fixing his pale blue porcelain -eyes on Hubert, he said—</p> - -<p>'Yes; see I made no bloomin' error when I said you was a man of -eddication. A literary gent, I should think. In the reporting line, most -like. Down in the luck like myself. What was it—drink? Got the chuck?'</p> - -<p>'No,' said Hubert, 'never touch it. Out of work.'</p> - -<p>'No offence, master, we're all mortal, we is all weak, and in misfortune -we goes to it. It was them boys that drove me to it.'</p> - -<p>'How was that?'</p> - -<p>'They was always round my show; no getting rid of them, and their -remarks created a disturbance; the perlice said he wouldn't 'ave it, and -when the perlice won't 'ave it, what's a poor man to do? They are that -hignorant. But what's the use of talking of it, it only riles me.' The -blue-eyed man lay back in his seat, and his head sank on his chest. He -looked as if he were going to sleep again, but on Hubert's asking him to -explain his troubles, he leaned across the table.</p> - -<a name="040.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Well, I'll tell yer. Yer be an eddicated man, and I likes to talk to -them that 'as 'ad an eddication. Yer says, and werry truly, just now, that -changing the stable don't change an 'orse into a hass, or a hass into an -'orse. That is werry true, most true, none but a eddicated man could 'ave -made that 'ere hobservation. I likes yer for it. Give us yer 'and. The -public just thinks too much of the stable, and not enough of what's inside. -Leastways that's my experience of the public, and I 'ave been a-catering -for the public ever since I was a growing lad—sides of bacon, ships on -fire, good old ship on fire.... I knows the public. Yer don't follow -me?'</p> - -<p>'Not quite.'</p> - -<p>'A moment, and I'll explain. You'll admit there's no blooming reason -except the public's blooming hignorance why a man shouldn't do as good a -picture on the pavement as on a piece of canvas, provided he 'ave the -blooming genius. There is no doubt that with them 'ere chalks and a nice -smooth stone that Raphael—I 'ave been to the National Gallery and 'ave -studied 'is work, and werry fine some of it is, although I don't altogether -hold—but that's another matter. What was I a-saying of? I remember,—that -with them 'ere chalks, and a nice smooth stone, there's no reason why <a -name="041.png" class="pb"></a> a masterpiece shouldn't be done. That's -right, ain't it? I ask you, as a man of eddication, to say if that ain't -right; as a representative of the Press, I asks you to say.' Hubert nodded, -and the pale-eyed man continued. 'Well, that's what the public won't see, -can't see. Raphael, says I, could 'ave done a masterpiece with them 'ere -chalks and a nice smooth stone. But do yer think 'e 'd 'ave been allowed? -Do yer think the perlice would 'ave stood it? Do yer think the public would -'ave stood him doing masterpieces on the pavement? I'd give 'im just one -afternoon. Them boys would 'ave got 'im into trouble, just as they did me. -Raphael would 'ave been told to wipe them out just as I was.'</p> - -<p>The conversation paused; and, half amused, half frightened, Hubert -considered the pale vague face, and he was struck by the scattered look of -aspiration that wandered in the pale blue eyes.</p> - -<p>'I'll tell you,' said the man, growing more excited, and leaning further -across the table; 'I'll tell you, because I knows you for an eddicated man, -and won't blab. S'pose yer thinks, like the rest of the world, that the -chaps wot smears, for it ain't drawing, the pavement with bits of bacon, a -ship on fire, and the regulation oysters, does them out of their own -'eads?' Hubert nodded. 'I'm not surprised that you do, all the world do, -and <a name="042.png" class="pb"></a> the public chucks down its coppers to -the poor hartist; but 'e aint no hartist, no more than is them 'ere boys -that did for my show.' Leaning still further forward, he lowered his voice -to a whisper. 'They learns it all by 'art; there is schools for the -teaching of it down in Whitechapel. They can just do what they learns by -'art, not one of them could draw that 'ere chair or table from natur'; but -I could. I 'ave an original talent. It was a long time afore I found out it -was there,' he said, tapping his forehead; 'but it is there,' he said, -fixing his eyes on Hubert, 'and when it is there they can't take it away—I -mean my mates—though they do laugh at my ideas. They call me "the genius," -for they don't believe in me, but I believe in myself, and they laughs best -that laughs last.... I don't know,' he said, looking round him, his eyes -full of reverie, 'that the public liked my fancy landscapes better than the -ship on fire, but I said the public will come to them in time, and I -continued my fancy landscapes. But one day in Trafalgar Square it came on -to rain very 'eavy, and I went for shelter into the National Gallery. It -was my fust visit, and I was struck all of a 'eap, and ever since I can -'ardly bring myself to go on with the drudgery of the piece of bacon, and -the piece of cheese, with the mouse nibbling at it. And ever since my <a -name="043.png" class="pb"></a> 'ead 'as been filled with other things, -though for a long time I could not make exactly out what. I 'ave 'eard that -that is always the case with men that 'as an idea—daresay you 'ave found -it so yourself. So in my spare time I goes to the National to think it out, -and in studying the pictures there I got wery interested in a chap called -Hetty, and 'e do paint the female form divine. I says to myself, Why not go -in for lovely woman? the public may not care for fancy landscapes, but the -public allus likes a lovely woman, and, as well as being popular, lovely -woman is 'igh 'art. So, after dinner hour, I sets to work, and sketches in -a blue sea with three bathers, and two boxes, with the 'orse's head looking -out from behind one of the boxes. For a fust attempt at the nude, I assure -you—it ain't my way to blow my own trumpet, but I can say that the crowd -that 'ere picture did draw was bigger than any that 'ad assembled about the -bits o' bacon and ship-a-fire of all the other coves. 'Ad I been let alone, -I should 'ave made my fortune, but the crowd was so big and the curiosity -so great that it took the perlice all their time to keep the pavement from -being blocked. It wasn't that the public didn't like it enough, it was that -the public liked it too much, that was the reason of my misfortune.'</p> - -<a name="044.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'What do you mean?' said Hubert.</p> - -<p>'Well, yer see them boys was a-hawking their cheap toys in the -neighbourhood, and when they got wind of my success they comes round to -see, and they remains on account of the crowd. Pockets was picked, I don't -say they wasn't, and the perlice turned rusty, and then a pious old gent -comes along, and 'earing the remarks of them boys, which I admit wasn't -nice, complains to the hauthorities, and I was put down! Now, what I wants -to know is why my art should be made to suffer for the beastly-mindedness -of them 'ere boys.'</p> - -<p>Hubert admitted that there seemed to be an injustice somewhere, and -asked the artist if he had never tried again.</p> - -<p>'Try again? Should think I did. When once a man 'as tasted of 'igh art, -he can't keep his blooming fingers out of it. It was impossible after the -success of my bathers to go back to the bacon, so I thought I would -circumvent the hauthorities. I goes to the National Gallery, makes a -sketch, 'ere it is,' and after some fumbling in his breast pocket, he -produced a greasy piece of paper, which he handed to Hubert. 'S'pose yer -know the picture?' Hubert admitted that he did not. 'Well, that is a -drawing from Gainsborough's celebrated picture of Medora a-washing of <a -name="045.png" class="pb"></a> her feet.... But the perlice wouldn't 'ave -it any more than my original, 'e said it was worse than the bathers at -Margaret, and when I told the hignorant brute wot it was, 'e said he wanted -no hargument, that 'e wouldn't 'ave it.'</p> - -<p>Hubert had noticed, during the latter part of the narrative, a look of -dubious cunning twinkling in the pale eyes; but now this look died away, -and the eyes resumed their habitual look of vague reverie.</p> - -<p>'I've been 'ad up before the Beak: from him I expected more -enlightenment, but he, too, said 'e wouldn't 'ave it, and I got a month. -But I'll beat them yet, the public is on my side, and if it worn't for them -'ere boys, I'd say that the public could be helevated. They calls me "the -genius," and they is right.' Then something seemed to go out like a flame, -the face grew dim, and changed expression. 'It is 'ere all right,' he said, -no longer addressing Hubert, but speaking to himself, 'and since it is -there, it must come out.'</p> - -<a name="046.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>IV</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">Hubert</span> at last found himself obliged to -write to Ford for an advance of money. But Ford replied that he would -advance money only on the delivery of the completed manuscript. And the -whole of one night, in a room hardly eight feet long, sitting on his bed, -he strove to complete the fourth and fifth acts. But under the pressure of -such necessity ideas died within him. And all through the night, and even -when the little window, curtained with a bit of muslin hardly bigger than a -pocket-handkerchief, had grown white with dawn, he sat gazing at the sheet -of paper, his brain on fire, unable to think. Laying his pen down in -despair, he thought of the thousands who would come to his aid if they only -knew—if they only knew! And soon after he heard life beginning again in -the little brick street. He felt that his brain was giving way, that if he -did not find change, whatever it was, he must surely run raving mad. He had -had enough of England, and would leave it for America, Australia<a -name="047.png" class="pb"></a>—anywhere. He wanted change. The present was -unendurable. How would he get to America? Perhaps a clerkship on board one -of the great steamships might be obtained.</p> - -<p>The human animal in extreme misery becomes self-reliant, and Hubert -hardly thought of making application to his uncle. The last time he had -applied for help his letter had remained unanswered, and he now felt that -he must make his own living or die. And, quite indifferent as to what might -befall him, he walked next day to the Victoria Docks. He did not know where -or how to apply for work, and he tired himself in fruitless endeavour. At -last he felt he could strive with fate no longer, and wandered mile after -mile, amused and forgetful of his own misery in the spectacle of the -river—the rose sky, the long perspectives, the houses and warehouses -showing in fine outline, and then the wonderful blue night gathering in the -forest of masts and rigging. He was admirably patient. There was no -fretfulness in his soul, nor did he rail against the world's injustice, but -took his misfortunes with sweet gentleness.</p> - -<p>He slept in a public-house, and next day resumed his idle search for -employment. The weather was mild and beautiful, his wants were simple, a -cup of coffee <a name="048.png" class="pb"></a> and a roll, a couple of -sausages, and the day passed in a sort of morose and passionless -contemplation. He thought of everything and nothing, least of all of how he -should find money for the morrow. When the day came, and the penny to buy a -cup of coffee was wanting, he quite naturally, without giving it a second -thought, engaged himself as a labourer, and worked all day carrying sacks -of grain out of a vessel's hold. For a large part of his nature was patient -and simple, docile as an animal's. There was in him so much that was -rudimentary, that in accepting this burden of physical toil he was acting -not in contradiction to, but in full and perfect harmony with, his true -nature.</p> - -<p>But at the end of a week his health began to give way, and, like a man -after a violent debauch, he thought of returning to a more normal -existence. He had left the manuscript of his unfortunate play in the North. -Had they destroyed it? The involuntary fear of the writer for his child -made him smile. What did it matter? Clearly the first thing to do would be -to write to the editor of <i>The Cosmopolitan</i>, and ask if he could find -him some employment, something certain; writing occasional articles for -newspapers, that he couldn't do.</p> <a name="049.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>Hubert had saved twelve shillings. He would therefore be able to pay his -landlady: he smiled—one of his landladies! The earlier debt was now -hopelessly out of his reach, and seemed to represent a social plane from -which he had for ever fallen. If he had succeeded in getting that play -right, what a difference it would have made! He would have been able to do -a number of things he had never done, things which he had always desired to -do. He had desired above all to travel—to see France and Italy; to linger, -to muse in the shadows of the world's past; and after this he had desired -marriage, an English wife, an English home, beautiful children, leisure, -the society of friends. A successful play would have given him all these -things, and now his dream must remain for ever unrealised by him. He had -sunk out of sight and hearing of such life.</p> - -<p>Rose was another; she might sink as he had sunk; she might never find -the opportunity of realising her desire. How well she would have played -that part! He knew what was in her. And now! What did his failure to write -that play condemn him to? Heaven only knows, he did not wish to think. -Strange, was it not strange?... A man of genius—many believed him a -genius—and yet he was incapable of earning his <a name="050.png" -class="pb"></a> daily bread otherwise than by doing the work of a navvy. -Even that he could not do well, society had softened his muscles and -effeminised his constitution. Indeed, he did not know what life fate had -willed him for. He seemed to be out of place everywhere. His best chance -was to try to obtain a clerkship. The editor of <i>The Cosmopolitan</i> -might be able to do that for him; if he could not, far better it would be -to leave a world in which he was <i>out of place</i>, and through no fault -of his own—that was the hard part of it. Hard part! Nonsense! What does -Fate know of our little rights and wrongs—or care? Her intentions are -inscrutable; she watches us come and go, and gives no sign. Prayers are -vain. The good man is punished, and the wicked is sent on his way -rejoicing.</p> - -<p>In such mournful thought, his clothes stained and torn, with all the -traces of a week's toil in the docks upon them, Hubert made his way round -St. Paul's and across Holborn. As he was about to cross into Oxford Street, -he heard some one accost him,—</p> - -<p>'Oh, Mr. Price, is that you?' It was Rose. 'Where have you been all this -time?'</p> - -<p>She seemed so strange, so small, and so much alone in the great -thoroughfare, that Hubert forgot all his own troubles in a sudden interest -in this little mite. <a name="051.png" class="pb"></a> 'Where have you been -hiding yourself?... It is lucky I met you. Don't you know that Ford has -decided to revive <i>Divorce</i>?'</p> - -<p>'You don't mean it!'</p> - -<p>'Yes; Ford said that the last acts of <i>The Gipsy</i> were not -satisfactorily worked out, and as there was something wrong with that -Hamilton Brown's piece, he has decided to revive <i>Divorce</i>. He says it -never was properly played ... he thinks he'll make a hit in the husband's -part, and I daresay he will. But I have been unfortunate again; I wanted -the part of the adventuress. I really could play it. I don't look it, I -know ... I have no weight, but I could play it for all that. The public -mightn't see me in it at first, but in five minutes they would.'</p> - -<p>'And what part has he cast you for—the young girl?'</p> - -<p>'Of course; there's no other part. He says I look it; but what's the -good of looking it when you don't feel it? If he had cast me for Mrs. -Barrington, I should have had just the five minutes in the second act that -I have been waiting for so long, and I should have just wiped Miss Osborne -out, acted her off the stage.... I know I should; you needn't believe it if -don't like, but I know I should.'</p> - -<a name="052.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>Hubert wondered how any one could feel so sure of herself, and then he -said, 'Yes, I think you could do just what you say.... How do you think -Miss Osborne will play the part?'</p> - -<p>'She'll be correct enough; she'll miss nothing, and yet somehow she'll -miss the whole thing. But you must go at once to Ford. He was saying only -this morning that if you didn't turn up soon, he'd have to give up the -idea.'</p> - -<p>'I can't go and see him to-night. You see what a state I'm in.'</p> - -<p>'You're rather dusty; where have you been? what have you been -doing?'</p> - -<p>'I've been down at the dock.... I thought of going to America.'</p> - -<p>'Well, we'll talk about that another time. It doesn't matter if you are -a bit dusty and worn-out-looking. Now that he's going to revive your play, -he'll let you have some money. You might get a new hat, though. I don't -know how much they cost, but I've five shillings; can you get one for -that?'</p> - -<p>Hubert thanked her.</p> - -<p>'But you are not offended?'</p> - -<p>'Offended, my dear Rose! I shall be able to manage. I'll get a brush up -somewhere.'</p> - -<a name="053.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'That's all right. Now I'm going to jump into that 'bus,' and she signed -with her parasol to the conductor. 'Mind you see Ford to-night,' she cried; -and a moment after he saw a small space of blue back seated against one of -the windows.</p> - -<a name="054.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>V</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">There</span> was much prophecy abroad. -Stiggins' words, 'The piece never did, and never will draw money,' were -evidently present in everybody's mind. They were visible in Ford's face, -and more than once Hubert expected to hear that—on account of severe -indisposition—Mr. Montague Ford has been obliged to indefinitely postpone -his contemplated revival of Mr. Hubert Price's play <i>Divorce</i>. But, -besides the apprehension that Stiggins' unfavourable opinion of his -enterprise had engendered in him, Ford was obviously provoked by Hubert's -reluctance to execute the alterations he had suggested. Night after night, -sometimes until six in the morning, Hubert sat up considering them. Thanks -to Ford's timely advance he was back in his old rooms in Fitzroy Street. -All was as it had been. He was working at his play every evening, waiting -for Rose's footsteps on the stairs. And yet a change had come into his -life! He believed now that his feet were set on the way to fortune—that he -would soon be happy.</p> - -<a name="055.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>He stared at the bright flame of the lamp, he listened to the silence. -The clock chimed sharply, and the windows were growing grey. Hubert had -begun to drowse in his chair; but he had promised to rewrite the young -girl's part, Ford having definitely refused to intrust Rose with the part -of the adventuress. He was sorry for this. He believed that Rose had not -only talent, but genius. Besides, they were friends, neighbours; he would -like to give her a chance of distinguishing herself—the chance which she -was seeking. All the time he could not but realise that, however he might -accentuate and characterise the part of the sentimental girl, Rose would -not be able to do much with it. To bring out her special powers something -strange, wild, or tragic was required. But of what use thinking of what was -not to be? Having made some alterations and additions he folded his papers -up, and addressed them to Miss Massey. He wrote on a piece of paper that -they were to be given to her at once, and that he was to be called at ten. -There was a rehearsal at twelve.</p> - -<p>On the night of the first performance, Hubert asked Rose to dine in his -rooms. Mr. Wilson proposed that they should have a roast chicken, and Annie -was sent to fetch a bottle of champagne from the <a name="056.png" -class="pb"></a> grocer's. Annie had been given a ticket for the pit. Mrs. -Wilson was going to the upper boxes. Annie said,—</p> - -<p>'Why, you look as if you was going to a funeral, and not to a play. Why -don't ye laugh?'</p> - -<p>In truth, Hubert and Rose were a little silent. Rose was thinking how -she could say certain lines. She had said them right once at rehearsal, but -had not since been able to reproduce to her satisfaction a certain effect -of voice. Hubert was too nervous to talk. There was nothing in his mind but -'Will the piece succeed? What shall I do if it fails?' He could give heed -to nothing but himself, all the world seemed blotted out, and he suffered -the pain of excessive self-concentration. Rose, on the other hand, had lost -sight of herself, and existed almost unconsciously in the soul of another -being. She was sometimes like a hypnotised spectator watching with foolish, -involuntary curiosity the actions of one whom she had been bidden to watch. -Then a little cloud would gather over her eyes, and then this other being -would rise as if out of her very entrails and recreate her, fashioning her -to its own image and likeness.</p> - -<p>She did not answer when she was spoken to, and <a name="057.png" -class="pb"></a> when the question was repeated, she awoke with a little -start. Dinner was eaten in morbid silence, with painful and fitful efforts -to appear interested in each other. Walking to the theatre, they once took -the wrong turning and had to ask the way. At the stage door they smiled -painfully, nodded, glad to part. Hubert went up to Montague Ford's room. He -found the comedian on a low stool, seated before a low table covered with -brushes and cosmetics, in front of a triple glass.</p> - -<p>'My dear friend, do not trouble me now. I am thinking of my part.'</p> - -<p>Hubert turned to go.</p> - -<p>'Stay a moment,' cried the actor. 'You know when the husband meets the -wife he has divorced?'</p> - -<p>Hubert remembered the moment referred to, and, with anxious, doubting -eyes, the comedian sought from the author justification for some -intonations and gestures which seemed to him to form part and parcel of the -nature of the man whose drunkenness he had so admirably depicted on his -face.</p> - -<p>'"<i>This is most unfortunate, very unlucky—very, my dear Louisa; -but——</i>"</p> - -<p>'"<i>I am no longer obliged to bear with your insults; I can now defend -myself against you.</i>"</p> - -<a name="058.png" class="pb"></a> - -<div class="image"><a href="images/image03.jpeg"><img src="images/image03-thumb.jpeg" -align="left" alt="[drawing]"></a> - -"In the third row Harding stood talking to a young man." </div> - -<br> - -<a name="059.png" class="pb"></a> - -<a name="060.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Now, is that your idea of the scene?'</p> - -<p>A pained look came upon Hubert's face. 'Don't question me now, my dear -fellow. I cannot fix my attention. I can see, however, that your make-up is -capital—you are the man himself.'</p> - -<p>The actor was satisfied, and in his satisfaction he said, 'I think it -will be all right, old chap.'</p> - -<p>Hubert hoped to reach his box without meeting critics or authors. The -serving-maids bowed and smiled,—he was the author of the play. 'They'll -think still more of me if the notices are right,' he thought, as he hurried -upstairs, and from behind the curtain of his box he peeped down and counted -the critics who edged their way down the stalls. Harding stood in the third -row talking to a young man. He said, 'You mean the woman with the black -hair piled into a point, and fastened with a steel circlet. A face of -sheep-like sensuality. Red lips and a round receding chin. A large bosom, -and two thin arms showing beneath the opera cloak, which she has not yet -thrown from her shoulders. I do not know her—<i>une laideur attirante</i>. -Many a man might be interested in her. But do you see the woman in the -stage-box? You would not believe it, but she is sixty, and has only just -begun to speak of herself as an <a name="061.png" class="pb"></a> old -woman. She kept her figure, and had an admirer when she was -fifty-eight.'</p> - -<p>'What has become of him?'</p> - -<p>'They quarrelled; two years ago he told her he hoped never to see her -ugly old face again. And that delicate little creature in the box next to -her—that pale diaphanous face?'</p> - -<p>'With a young man hanging over her whispering in her ear?'</p> - -<p>'Yes. She hates the theatre; it gives her neuralgia; but she attends all -the first nights because her one passion is to be made love to in public. -If her admirer did not hang over her in front of the box just as that man -is doing, she would not tolerate him for a week.'</p> - -<p>At that moment the conversation was interrupted by a new-comer, who -asked if he had seen the play when it was first produced.</p> - -<p>'Yes,' said Harding; 'I did.' And he continued his search for -acquaintances amid white rows of female backs, necks, and half-seen -profiles—amid the black cloth shoulders cut sharply upon the illumined -curtain.</p> - -<p>'And what do you think of it? Do you think it will succeed this -time?'</p> - -<p>'Ford will create an impression in the part; but I don't think the piece -will run.'</p> - -<a name="062.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'And why? Because the public is too stupid?'</p> - -<p>'Partly, and partly because Price is only an intentionist. He cannot -carry an idea quite through.'</p> - -<p>'Are you going to write about it?'</p> - -<p>'I may.'</p> - -<p>'And what will you say?'</p> - -<p>'Oh, most interesting things to be said. Let's take the case of Hubert -Price ... Ah, there, the curtain is going up.'</p> - -<p>The curtain rolled slowly up, and in a small country drawing-room, in -very simple but very pointedly written dialogue, the story of Mrs. Holmes' -domestic misfortunes was gradually unfolded. It appeared that she had -flirted with Captain Grey; he had written her some compromising letters, -and she had once been to his rooms alone. So the Court had pronounced a -decree <i>nisi</i>. But Mrs. Holmes had not been unfaithful to her husband. -She had flirted with Captain Grey because her husband's attentions to a -certain Mrs. Barrington had maddened her, and in her jealous rage had -written foolish letters, and been to see Captain Grey.</p> - -<p>Hubert noticed that folk were still asking for their seats, and pushing -down the very rows in which the most influential critics were sitting. They -exchanged a salutation with their friends in the dress-circle, and, <a -name="063.png" class="pb"></a> when they were seated, looked around, making -observations regarding the appearance of the house; and all the while the -actors were speaking. Hubert trembled with fear and rage. Would these -people never give their attention to the stage? If they had been sitting by -him, he could have struck them. Then a line turned into nonsense by the -actress who played Mrs. Holmes was a lancinating pain; and the actor who -played Captain Grey, played so slowly that Hubert could hardly refrain from -calling from his box. He looked round the theatre, noticing the indifferent -faces of the critics, and the women's shoulders seemed to him especially -vacuous and imbecile.</p> - -<p>The principal scene of the second act was between Mrs. Holmes and the -man who had divorced her. He has-been driven to drink by the vile behaviour -of his second wife; he is ruined in health and in pocket, and has come to -the woman he wronged to beg forgiveness; he knows she has learnt to love -Captain Grey, but will not marry him, because she believes that once -married always married. There is only one thing he can do to repair the -wrong he has done—he will commit suicide, and so enable her to marry the -man she loves. He tells her that he has bought the pistol to do it with, -and the words, 'Not here! not here!' escape from <a name="064.png" -class="pb"></a> her; and he answers, 'No, not here, but in a cab. I've got -one at the door.' He goes out; Captain Grey enters, and Mrs. Holmes begs -him to save her husband. While they are discussing how this is to be done, -he re-enters, saying that his conscience smote him as he was going to pull -the trigger. Will she forgive him? If she won't, he must make an end of -himself. She says she will.</p> - -<p>In the third act Hubert had attempted to paint Mr. Holmes' vain efforts -to reform his life. But the constant presence of Captain Grey in the -household, his attempts to win Mrs. Holmes from her husband, and the -drunken husband's amours with the servant-maid disgusted rather than -horrified. In the fourth act the wretched husband admits that his -reformation is impossible, and that, although he has no courage to commit -suicide and set his wife free, he will return to his evil courses; they -will sooner or later make an end of him. The slowness and deadly gravity -with which Ford took this scene rendered it intolerable; and, -notwithstanding the beauty of the conclusion, when the deserted wife, in -the silence of her drawing-room, reads again Captain Grey's letter, telling -her that he has left England for ever, and with another, the success of the -play was left in doubt, and the audience <a name="065.png" class="pb"></a> -filed out, talking, chattering, arguing, wondering what the public verdict -would be.</p> - -<p>To avoid commiseration of heartless friends and the triumphant glances -of literary enemies, Hubert passed through the door leading on to the -stage. Scene-shifters were brutally pushing away what remained of his play; -and the presence of Hamilton Brown, the dramatic author, talking to Ford, -was at that moment particularly disagreeable. On catching sight of Hubert, -Brown ran to him, shook him by the hand, and murmured some discreet -congratulations. He preferred the piece, however, as it had been originally -written, and suggested to Ford the advisability of returning to the first -text. Then Ford went upstairs to take his paint off, and Hubert walked -about the stage with Brown. Brown's insincerity was sufficiently -transparent; but men in Hubert's position catch at straws, and he soon -began to believe that the attitude of the public towards his play was not -so unfavourable as he had imagined.</p> - -<p>Hubert tried to summon up a smile for the stage-door keeper, who, he -feared, had heard that the piece had failed, and then the moment they got -outside he begged Rose to tell him the exact truth. She assured him that -Ford had said that he had always counted on a certain amount of opposition; -but that he believed <a name="066.png" class="pb"></a> that the general -public, being more free of prejudice and less sophisticated, would be -impressed by the simple humanity of the play. The conversation paused, and -at the end of an irritating silence he said, 'You were excellent, as good -as any one could be in a part that did not suit them. Ah, if he had cast -you for the adventuress, how you would have played it!...'</p> - -<p>'I'm so glad you are pleased. I hope my notices will be good. Do you -think they will?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, your notices will be all right,' he answered, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>'And your notices will be all right too. No one can say what is going to -succeed. There was a call after each of the last three acts.... I don't see -how a piece could go better. It is the suspense....'</p> - -<p>'Ah, yes, the suspense!'</p> - -<p>They lingered on the landing, and Hubert said, 'Won't you come in for a -moment?' She followed him into the room. His calm face, usually a perfect -picture of repose and self-possession, betrayed his emotion by a certain -blankness in the eyes, certain contractions in the skin of the forehead. -'I'm afraid,' he said, 'there's no hope.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, you mustn't say that!' she replied. 'I think it <a name="067.png" -class="pb"></a> went very well indeed.... I know I did nothing with the -young girl. I oughtn't to have undertaken the part.'</p> - -<p>'You were excellent. If we only get some good notices. If we don't, I -shall never get another play of mine acted.' He looked at her imploringly, -thirsting for a woman's sympathy. But the little girl was thinking of -certain effects which she would have made, and which the actress who had -played the adventuress had failed to make.</p> - -<p>'I watched her all the time,' she said, 'following every line, saying -all the time, "Oh yes, that's all very nice and very proper, my young -woman; but it's not it; no, not at all—not within a hundred miles of it." -I don't think she ever really touched the part—do you?' Hubert did not -answer, and a quiver of distraction ran through the muscles of her -face.</p> - -<p>'Why don't you answer me?'</p> - -<p>'I can't answer you,' he said abruptly. Then remembering, he added, -'Forgive me; I can think of nothing now.' He hid his face in his hands, and -sobbed twice—two heavy, choking sobs, pregnant with the weight of anguish -lying on his heart.</p> - -<p>Seeing how much he suffered, she laid her hand on his shoulder. 'I am -very sorry; I wish I could help <a name="068.png" class="pb"></a> you. I -know how it tears the heart when one cannot get out what one has in one's -brain.'</p> - -<p>Her artistic appreciation of his suffering only jarred him the more. -What he longed for was some kind, simple-hearted woman who would say, -'Never mind, dear; the play was perfectly right, only they did not -understand it; I love you better than ever.' But Rose could not give him -the sympathy he wanted; and to be alone was almost a relief. He dared not -go to bed; he sat looking into space. The roar of London hushed till it was -no more than a faint murmur, the hissing of the gas grew louder, and still -Hubert sat thinking, the same thoughts battling in his brain. He looked -into the future, but could see nothing but suicide. His uncle? He had -applied to him before for help; there was no hope there. Then he tramped up -and down, maddened by the infernal hissing of the gas; and then threw -himself into his arm-chair. And so a terrible night wore away; and it was -not until long after the early carts had begun to rattle in the streets -that exhaustion brought an end to his sufferings, and he rolled into -bed.</p> - -<a name="069.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>VI</h2> - -<p>'<span class="small-caps">What</span> will ye 'ave to eat? Eggs and -bacon?'</p> - -<p>'No, no!'</p> - -<p>'Well, then, 'ave a chop?'</p> - -<p>'No, no!'</p> - -<p>'Ye must 'ave something.'</p> - -<p>'A cup of tea, a slice of toast. I'm not hungry.'</p> - -<p>'Well, ye are worse than a young lady for a happetite. Miss Massey 'as -sent you down these 'ere papers.'</p> - -<p>The servant-girl laid the papers on the bed, and Hubert lay back on his -pillow, so that he might collect his thoughts. Stretching forth his hands, -he selected the inevitable paper.</p> - -<p>'For those who do not believe that our English home life is composed -mainly, if not entirely, of lying, drunkenness, and conjugal infidelity, -and its sequel divorce, yester evening at the Queen's Theatre must have -been a sad and dismal experience. That men and women who have vowed to love -each other do sometimes prove false to their troth no reasonable <a -name="070.png" class="pb"></a> man will deny. With the divorce court before -our eyes, even the most enthusiastic believer in the natural goodness and -ultimate perfectibility of human nature must admit that men and women are -frail. But drunkenness and infidelity are happily not characteristic of our -English homes. Then why, we ask, should a dramatist select such a theme, -and by every artifice of dialogue force into prominence all that is mean -and painful in an unfortunate woman's life? Always the same relentless -method; the cold, passionless curiosity of the vivisector; the scalpel is -placed under the nerve, and we are called upon to watch the quivering -flesh. Never the kind word, the tears, the effusion, which is man's highest -prerogative, and which separates him from the brute and signifies the -immortal end for which he was created. We hold that it is a pity to see so -much talent wasted, and it was indeed a melancholy sight to see so many -capable actors and actresses labouring to——'</p> - -<p>'This is even worse than usual,' said Hubert; and glancing through half -a column of hysterical commonplace, he came upon the following:—</p> - -<p>'But if this woman had succeeded in reclaiming from vice the man who -unjustly divorced her, and who in his misery goes back to ask her -forgiveness for pity's <a name="071.png" class="pb"></a> sake, what a -lesson we should have had! And, with lightened and not with heavier hearts, -we should have left the theatre comforted, better and happier men and -women. But turning his back on the goodness, truth, and love whither he had -induced us to believe he was leading us, the author flagrantly makes the -woman contradict her whole nature in the last act; and, because her husband -falls again, she, instead of raising him with all the tender mercies and -humanities of wifehood, declares that her life has been one long mistake, -and that she accepts the divorce which the Court had unjustly granted. The -moral, if such a word may be applied to such a piece is this: "The law may -be bad, but human nature is worse."'</p> - -<p>The other morning papers took the same view,—a great deal of talent -wasted on a subject that could please no one. Hubert threw the papers -aside, lay back, and in the lucid idleness of the bed his thoughts grew -darker. It was hardly possible that the piece could survive such notices; -and if it did not? Well, he would have to go. But until the piece was taken -out of the bills it would be a weakness to harbour the ugly thought.</p> - -<p>There were, however, the evening papers to look forward to, and soon -after midday Annie was sent to buy all that had appeared. Hubert expected -to find in <a name="072.png" class="pb"></a> these papers a more delicate -appreciation of his work. Many of the critics of the evening press were his -personal friends, and nearly all were young men in full sympathy with the -new school of dramatic thought. He read paper after paper with avidity; and -Annie was sent in a cab to buy one that had not yet found its way so far -north as Fitzroy Street. The opinion of this paper was of all importance, -and Hubert tore it open with trembling fingers. Although more temperately -written than the others, it was clearly favourable, and Hubert sighed a -sweet sigh of relief. A weight was lifted from him; the world suddenly -seemed to grow brighter; and he went to the theatre that evening, and, half -doubting and half confidently, presented himself at the door of Montague -Ford's dressing-room. The actor had not yet begun to dress, and was busy -writing letters. He stretched his hand hurriedly to Hubert.</p> - -<p>'Excuse me, my dear fellow; I have a couple of letters to finish.'</p> - -<p>Hubert sat down, glancing nervously from the actor to the morning papers -with which the table was strewn. There was not an evening paper there. Had -he not seen them? At the end of about ten minutes the actor said,—</p> - -<a name="073.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Well, this is a bad business; they are terribly down on us—aren't -they? What do you think?'</p> - -<p>'Have you seen the evening papers—<i>The Telephone</i>, for -instance?'</p> - -<p>'Oh yes, I've seen them all; but the evening papers don't amount to -much. Stiggins's article was terrible. I am afraid he has killed the -piece.'</p> - -<p>'Don't you think it will run, then?'</p> - -<p>'Well, that depends upon the public, of course. If they like it, I'll -keep it on.'</p> - -<p>'How's the booking?'</p> - -<p>'Not good.' Montague Ford moved his papers absent-mindedly. At the end -of a long silence he said, 'Even if the piece did catch on, it would take a -lot of working up to undo the mischief of those articles. Of course you can -rely on me to give it every chance. I shan't take it out of the bills if I -can possibly help.'</p> - -<p>'There is my <i>Gipsy</i>.'</p> - -<p>'I have another piece ready to put into rehearsal; it was arranged for -six months ago. I only consented to produce your play because—well, -because there has been such an outcry lately about art.... Tremendous part -for me in the new piece... I'm sure you'll like it.'</p> - -<p>The business did improve, but so very slowly that <a name="074.png" -class="pb"></a> Hubert was afraid Ford would lose patience and take the -play out of the bills. But while the fate of the play hung in the balance, -Hubert's life was being rendered unbearable by duns. They had found him -out, one and all; to escape being served was an impossibility; and now his -table was covered with summonses to appear at the County Court. This would -not matter if the piece once took the public taste. Then he would be able -to pay every one, and have some time to rest and think. And there seemed -every prospect of its catching on. Discussions regarding the morality of -the play had arisen in the newspapers, and the eternal question whether men -and women are happier married or unmarried had reached its height. Hubert -spent the afternoon addressing letters to the papers, striving to fan the -flame of controversy. Every evening he listened for Rose's footstep on the -stairs.—How did the piece go?—Was there a better house? Money or -paper?—Have you seen the notice in the ——?—First-rate, wasn't it?—That -ought to do some good.—I've heard there was a notice in the ——, but I -haven't seen it. Have you?—No; but So-and-so saw the paper, and said there -was nothing in it. And, do you know, I hear there's going to be a notice in -<i>The Modern Review</i>, and that So-and-so is writing it.</p> - -<a name="075.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>Every post brought newspapers; the room was filled with newspapers—all -kinds of newspapers—papers one has never heard of,—French papers, Welsh -papers, North of England papers, Scotch and Irish papers. Hubert read -columns about himself, anecdotes of all kinds,—where he was born, who were -his parents, and what first induced him to attempt writing for the stage; -his personal appearance, mode of life, the cut of his clothes; his -religious, moral, and political views. Had he been the plaintiff in an -action for criminal libel, greater industry in the collection and the -fabrication of personal details could hardly have been displayed.</p> - -<p>But at these articles Hubert only glanced; he was interested in his -piece, not in himself, and when Annie brought up <i>The Modern Review</i> -he tore it open, knowing he would find there criticism more fundamental, -more searching. But as he read, the expression of hope which his face wore -changed to one of pain pitiful to look upon. The article began with a -sketch of the general situation, and in a tone of commiseration, of -benevolent malice, the writer pointed out how inevitable it was that the -critics should have taken Mr. Price, when <i>Divorce</i> was first -produced, for the new dramatic genius they were waiting for. 'There comes a -moment,' said this caustic writer, 'in the affairs of <a name="076.png" -class="pb"></a> men when the new is not only eagerly accepted, but when it -is confounded with the original. Wearied by the old stereotyped form of -drama, the critics had been astonished by a novelty of subject, more -apparent than real, and by certain surface qualities in the execution; they -had hailed the work as being original both in form and in matter, whereas -all that was good in the play had been borrowed from France and -Scandinavia. <i>Divorce</i> was the inevitable product of the time. It had -been written by Mr. Price, but it might have been written by a dozen other -young men—granting intelligence, youth, leisure, a university education, -and three or four years of London life—any one of a dozen clever young men -who frequent West End drawing-rooms and dabble in literature might have -written it. All that could be said was that the play was, or rather had -been, <i>dans le mouvement</i>; and original work never is <i>dans le -mouvement</i>. <i>Divorce</i> was nothing more than the product of certain -surroundings, and remembering Mr. Price's other plays, there seemed to be -no reason to believe that he would do better. Mr. Price had tried his hand -at criticism, and that was a sure sign that the creative faculty had begun -to wither. His critical essays were not rich nor abundant in thought, they -were not the skirmishing of a man fighting for his <a name="077.png" -class="pb"></a> ideas, they were not preliminary to a great battle; they -were at once vague and pedantic, somewhat futile, <i>les ébats d'un esprit -en peine</i>, and seemed to announce a talent in progress of disintegration -rather than of reconstruction.</p> - -<p>'Sometimes the critic's phrases seemed wet with tears; sometimes, -abandoning his tone of commiseration, he would assume one of scientific -indifference. The phenomenon was the commonest. There were dozens of Hubert -Prices in London. The universities and the newspapers, working singly and -in collaboration, turned them out by the dozen. And the mission of these -men of intelligent culture seemed to be to <i>poser des lapins sur la jeune -presse</i>. Each one came in turn with his little volume of poems, his -little play, his little picture; all were men of "advanced ideas"; in other -words, they were all <i>dans le mouvement</i>. There was the rough Hubert -Price, who made mild consternation in the drawing-room, and there was the -sophisticated Hubert Price, who cajoled the drawing-room; there was the -sincere and the insincere, and the Price that suffered and the Price that -didn't. Each one brought a different <i>nuance</i>, a thousand -infinitesimal variations of the type, but, considered merely in its -relation to art, the species may be said to be divided <a name="078.png" -class="pb"></a> into two distinct categories. In the first category are -those who rise almost at the first bound to a certain level, who produce -quickly, never reaching again the original standard, dropping a little -lower at each successive effort until their work becomes indistinguishable -from the ordinary artistic commercialism of the time. The fate of those in -the second category is more pathetic; they gradually wither and die away -like flowers planted in a thin soil. Among these men many noble souls are -to be found, men who have surrendered all things for love of their art, and -who seemed at starting to be the best equipped to win, but who failed, -impossible to tell how or why. Sometimes their failure turns to comedy, -sometimes to tragedy. They may become refined, delicate, elderly bachelors, -the ornaments of drawing-rooms, professional diners-out—men with brilliant -careers behind them. But if fate has not willed that they should retire -into brilliant shells; if chance does not allow them to retreat, to -separate themselves from their kind, but arbitrarily joins them to others, -linking their fate to the fate of others' unhappiness, disaster may and -must accrue from the alliance; honesty of purpose, trueness of heart, deep -love, every great, good, and gracious quality to be found in nature, will -not suffice to save them.'</p> - -<a name="079.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>The paper dropped from his hands, and he recollected all his -failures.</p> - -<p>'Once I could do good work; now I can do neither good work nor bad. Were -I a rich man, I should collect my scattered papers and write songs to be -sung in drawing-rooms; but being a poor one, I must—I suppose I must get -out. Positively, there is no hope,—debts on every side. Fate has willed me -to go as went Haydon, Gerard de Nerval, and Maréchal. The first cut his -throat, the second hanged himself, and the third blew out his brains. -Clearly the time has come to consider how I shall make my exit. It is a -little startling to be called upon so peremptorily to go.'</p> - -<p>In this moment of extreme dejection it seemed to Hubert that the writer -of the article had told him the exact truth. He refused to admit the plea -of poverty. It was of course hard to write when one is being harassed by -creditors. But if he had had it in him, it would have come out. The critic -had very probably told him the truth. He could not hope to make a living -out of literature. He had not the strength to write the masterpiece which -the perverse cruelty of nature had permitted him only to see, and he was -hopelessly unfit for journalism. But in his simple, wholesome mind there -was no bent towards suicide; and he <a name="080.png" class="pb"></a> -scanned every horizon. Once again he thought of his uncle. Five years ago -he had written, asking him for the loan of a hundred pounds. He had -received ten. And how vain it would be to write a second time! A few pounds -would only serve to prolong his misery. No; he would not drift from -degradation to degradation.</p> - -<p>He only glanced at the letter which Annie had brought up with the copy -of <i>The Modern Review</i>. It was clearly a lawyer's letter. Should he -open it? Why not spare himself the pain? He could alter nothing; and in -these last days—— Leaving the thought unfinished, he sought for his keys; -he went to his box, unlocked it, and took out a small paper package. Of the -fifty pounds he had received from Ford about twenty remained: he had been -poorer before, but hardly quite so hopeless. He scanned every horizon—all -were barred. The thought of suicide, and with it the instinctive shrinking -from it, came into his mind again. Suppose he took, that very night, an -overdose of chloral? He tried to put the thought from him, and returned, a -little dazed and helpless, to his chair. Had the critic in <i>The Modern -Review</i> told him the truth? Was he incapable of earning a living? It -seemed so. Above all, was he incapable of finishing <a name="081.png" -class="pb"></a> <i>The Gipsy</i> as he intended? No; that he felt was a -lie. Give him six months' quiet, free from worry and all anxiety, and he -would do it. Many a year had passed since he had enjoyed a month of quiet; -and glancing again at the letter on the table, he thought that perhaps at -that very moment a score of gallery boys were hissing his play. Perhaps at -that very moment Ford was making up his mind to announce the last six -nights of <i>Divorce</i>. At a quarter to twelve he heard Rose's foot on -the stairs. He opened the door.</p> - -<p>'How did the piece go to-night?'</p> - -<p>'Pretty well.'</p> - -<p>'Only pretty well? Won't you come in for a few minutes?... So the piece -didn't go very well to-night?'</p> - -<p>'Oh yes, it did. I've seen it go better; but——'</p> - -<p>'Did you get a call?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, after the second act.'</p> - -<p>'Not after the third?'</p> - -<p>'No. That act never goes well. Harding came behind; I was speaking to -him, and he said something which struck me as being very true. Ford, he -said, plays the part a great deal too seriously. When the piece was first -produced, it was played more good-humouredly <a name="082.png" -class="pb"></a> by indifferent actors, who let the thing run without trying -to bring out every point. Ford makes it as hard as nails. I think those -were his exact words.'</p> - -<p>Hubert did not answer. At the end of a long silence he said,—</p> - -<p>'Did you hear anything about the last night's?'</p> - -<p>'No,' she said; 'I heard nothing of that.'</p> - -<p>'Ford appeared quite satisfied then?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, quite,' she answered, with difficulty; for his eyes were fixed on -her, and she felt he knew she was not telling the truth. The conversation -paused again, and to turn it into another channel she said, 'Why, you have -not opened your letter!'</p> - -<p>'I can see it is a lawyer's letter, on account of some unpaid bill. If I -could pay it, I would; but as I can't——'</p> - -<p>'You are afraid to open it,' said Rose.</p> - -<p>Ashamed of his weakness, Hubert opened the letter, and began to read. -Rose saw that the letter was not such an one as he had expected, and a -moment after his face told her that fortunate news had come to him. The -signs of the tumult within were represented by the passing of the hand -across the brow, as if to brush aside some strange hallucination, and <a -name="083.png" class="pb"></a> the sudden coming of a vague look of -surprise and fear into the eyes. He said,—</p> - -<p>'Read it! Read it!'</p> - -<p>Relieved of much detail and much cumbersome legal circumlocution, it was -to the following effect:—That about three months ago Mr. Burnett had come -up from his place in Sussex, and at the offices of Messrs. Grandly & -Co. had made a will, in which he had disinherited his adopted daughter, -Miss Emily Watson, and left everything to Mr. Hubert Price. There was no -question as to the validity of the will; but Messrs. Grandly deemed it -their duty to inform Mr. Hubert Price of the circumstances under which it -had been made, and also of the fact that a few weeks before his death Mr. -Burnett had told Mr. John Grandly, who was then staying with Mr. Burnett at -Ashwood, that he intended adding a codicil, leaving some two or three -hundred a year to Miss Watson. It was unfortunate that Mr. Burnett had not -had time to do this; for Miss Watson was an orphan, eighteen years of age, -and entirely unprovided for. Messrs. Grandly begged to submit these facts -to the consideration of Mr. Hubert Price. Miss Watson was now residing at -Ashwood. She was there with a friend of hers, Mrs. Bentley; and should Mr. -Hubert Price <a name="084.png" class="pb"></a> feel inclined to do what Mr. -Burnett had left undone, Messrs. Grandly would have very great pleasure in -carrying his wishes into effect.</p> - -<p>'I'm not dreaming, am I?'</p> - -<p>'No, you are not. It is quite true. Your uncle has left his money to -you. I am so glad; indeed I am. You will be able to finish your play, and -take a theatre and produce it yourself if you like. I hope you won't forget -me. I do want to play that part. You can't quite know what I shall do with -it. One can't explain oneself in a scene here and there.... What are you -thinking of?'</p> - -<p>'I'm thinking of that poor girl, Emily Watson. It comes very hard upon -her.'</p> - -<p>'Who is she?'</p> - -<p>'The girl my uncle disinherited.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, she! Well, you can marry her if you like. That would not be a bad -notion. But if you do, you'll forget all about me and Lady Hayward.'</p> - -<p>'No; I shall never forget you, Rose.' He stretched his hand to her; but, -irrespective of his will, the gesture seemed full of farewell.</p> - -<p>'I'm so much obliged to you,' he said; 'had it not been for you, I might -never have opened that letter.'</p> - -<p>'Even if you hadn't, it wouldn't have mattered; you <a name="085.png" -class="pb"></a> would have heard of your good fortune some other way. But -it is getting very late. I must say good-night. I hope you will have a -pleasant time in the country, and will finish your play. Good-night.'</p> - -<p>Returning from the door, he stopped to think. 'We have been very good -friends—that is all. How strangely determined she is!... More so than I -am. She is bound to succeed. There is in her just that note of individual -passion.... Perhaps some one will find her out before I have -finished,—that would be a pity. I wonder which of us will succeed -first?'</p> - -<p>Then the madness of good fortune came upon him suddenly; he could think -no more of Rose, and had to go for a long walk in the streets.</p> - -<a name="086.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>VII</h2> - -<p>'<span class="small-caps">Dearest</span> Emily, you must prepare -yourself for the worst.'</p> - -<p>'Is he dead?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; he passed away quite quietly. To look at him one would say he was -asleep; he does not appear to have suffered at all.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, Julia, Julia, do you think he forgave me? I could not do what he -asked me.... I loved him very dearly as a father, but I could not have -married him.'</p> - -<p>'No, dear, you could not. Such a marriage would have been most -unnatural; he was more than forty years older than you.'</p> - -<p>'I do not think he ever thought of such a thing until about a month or -six weeks ago. You remember how I ran to you? I was as white as a ghost, -and I trembled like a leaf. I could hardly speak.... You remember?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I remember; and some hours after, when I came into this room, he -was standing there, just there, on the hearth-rug; there was a fearful look -of pain and <a name="087.png" class="pb"></a> despair on his face—he -looked as if he was going mad. I never saw such a look before, and I never -wish to see such a look again. And the effort he made to appear unconcerned -when he saw me was perhaps the worst part of it. I pretended to see -nothing, and walked away towards the window and looked out. But all the -while I could feel that some terrible drama was passing behind me. At last -I had to look round. He was sitting in that chair, his elbows on his knees, -clasping his head with both hands, the old, gnarled fingers twined in the -iron-grey hair. Then, unable to contain himself any longer, he rushed out -of the room, out of the house, and across the park.'</p> - -<p>'You say that he passed away quietly; he did not seem to suffer at -all?'</p> - -<p>'No, he never recovered consciousness.'</p> - -<p>'But do you think that my refusal to marry him had anything to do with -his death?'</p> - -<p>'Oh no, Emily; a fit of apoplexy, with a man of his age, generally ends -fatally.'</p> - -<p>'Even if I had known it all beforehand I don't think I could have acted -differently. I could not have married him. Indeed I couldn't, Julia, not -even if I knew I should save his life by doing so. I daresay it is very -wicked of me, but——'</p> - -<a name="088.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Dearest Emily, you must not give way to such thoughts; you did quite -right in refusing to marry Mr. Burnett. It was very wrong of him even to -think of asking you, and if he had lived he would have seen how wrong it -was of him to desire such a thing.'</p> - -<p>'If he had lived! But then he didn't live, not even long enough to -forgive me, and when we think of how much he suffered—I don't mean in -dying, you say he passed away quietly, but all this last month how -heart-broken he looked! You remember when he sat at the head of the table, -never speaking to us, and how frightened I was lest I should meet him on -the stairs; I used to stand at the door of my room, afraid to move. I know -he suffered, poor old man. I was very, very sorry for him. Indeed I was, -Julia, for I'm not selfish, and when I think now that he died without -forgiving me, I feel, I feel—oh, I feel as if I should like to die myself. -Why do such things happen to me? I feel just as miserable now as I used to -when I lived with father and mother, who could not agree. I have often told -you how miserable I was then, but I don't think you ever quite understood. -I feel just the same now, just as if I never wanted to see any one or -anything again. I was so unhappy when I was a child, they thought I would -die, and I should have died if I had <a name="089.png" class="pb"></a> -remained listening to father and mother any longer. ... Every one thought I -was so lucky when Mr. Burnett decided to adopt me and leave me all his -money, and he has done that, poor old man, so I suppose I should be happy; -but I'm not.'</p> - -<p>The girl's eyes turned instinctively towards the window and rested for a -moment on the fair, green prospects of the park.</p> - -<p>'I hated to listen to father and mother quarrelling, but I loved them, -and I had not been here a year before father died, and darling mother was -not long following him—only six months. Then I had no one: a few distant -relatives, whom I knew nothing of, whom I did not care for, so I gave all -my love to Mr. Burnett. He was so good to me; he never denied me anything; -he gave me everything, even you, dearest Julia. When he thought I wanted a -companion, he found you for me. I learnt to love you. You became my best -and dearest friend. Then things seemed to brighten up, and I thought I was -happy, when all this dreadful trouble came upon us. Don't let's speak of it -more than we can help. I often wished myself dead. Didn't you, Julia?'</p> - -<p>Emily Watson told the story of her misfortunes in a low, musical voice, -heedless of two or three interruptions, <a name="090.png" class="pb"></a> -hardly conscious of her listener, impressed and interested by the fatality -of circumstances which she believed in design against her. She was a small, -slender girl of about eighteen. Her abundant chestnut hair—exquisite, -soft, and silky—was looped picturesquely, and fastened with a thin -tortoiseshell comb. The tiny mouth trembled, and the large, prominent eyes -reflected a strange, yearning soul. She was dressed in white muslin, and -the fantastically small waist was confined with a white band. Her friend -and companion, Julia Bentley, was a woman of about thirty, well above the -medium height, full-bosomed and small-waisted. The type was Anglo-Saxon -even to commonplace. The face was long, with a look of instinctive kindness -upon it. She was given to staring, and as she looked at Emily, her blue -eyes filled with an expression which told of a nature at once affectionate -and intelligent. She was dressed in yellow linen, and wore a gold bracelet -on a well-turned arm.</p> - -<p>The room was a long, old-fashioned drawing-room. It had three windows, -and all three were filled with views of the park, now growing pale in the -evening air. The flower-gardens were drawn symmetrically about the house -and were set with blue flower-vases in which there were red geraniums. It -was a very <a name="091.png" class="pb"></a> large room, nearly forty feet -long, with old portraits on the walls—ugly things and ill done; and where -there were no portraits the walls were decorated with vine leaves and -mountains. The parqueted floor was partially covered with skins, and the -furniture seemed to have known many a generation; some of it was heavy and -cumbersome, some of it was modern. There was a grand piano, and above it -two full-length portraits—a lady in a blue dress and a man in black velvet -knee-breeches. At the end of a long silence, Emily suddenly threw herself -weeping into Julia's arms.</p> - -<p>'Oh, you are my only friend; you will not leave me now.... We shall -always love one another, shall we not? If anything ever came between us it -would kill me.... That poor old man lying dead up-stairs! He loved me very -dearly, and I loved him, too. Yet I said just now I could not have married -him even if I had known it would save his life. I was wrong; yes, I would -have married him if I had known.... You don't believe me?'</p> - -<p>'My dearest girl, you must try to forget that Mr. Burnett ever -entertained so foolish a thought. He was a very good man, and loved you for -a long time as he should have loved you—as a daughter. We shall <a -name="092.png" class="pb"></a> respect his memory best by forgetting the -events of the last six weeks. And now, Emily, dinner will be ready at seven -o'clock, and it is now six. What are you going to do?'</p> - -<p>'I shall go out for a little walk. I shall go down and see the -swans.'</p> - -<p>'Shall I come with you?'</p> - -<p>'No, thank you, dear; I think I'd sooner be alone. I want to think.'</p> - -<p>Julia looked a moment anxiously at this fragile girl, whose tiny head -was poised on a long, delicate neck like a fruit on its stem.</p> - -<p>'Yes, go for a walk, dear,' said Julia; 'it will do you good. Shall I go -and fetch your hat and jacket?'</p> - -<p>'No, thank you, I will not trouble you; I'll go myself.'</p> - -<p>'No, Emily, I think you had better let me go.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, no; I am not afraid.'</p> - -<p>And she went up the wide oak staircase, thinking of the man who lay dead -in the room at the end of the passage. She was conscious of a sense of -dread; the house seemed to wear a strange air, and her dog, Dandy, was -conscious of it, too; he was more silent, less joyful than usual. And when -she came from her room, dressed to go out, instead of rushing down-stairs, -<a name="093.png" class="pb"></a> barking with joy, he dropped his tail and -lingered at the end of the passage. She called him; he still hesitated, and -then, yielding to a sudden desire, she went down the passage and knocked at -the door of the room. The nurse answered her knock.</p> - -<p>'Oh, don't come in, miss.'</p> - -<p>'Why not? I want to see him before he goes away for ever.'</p> - -<p>Upon the limp, white curtains of an old four-posted bed she saw the -memorable profile—stern, unrelenting. How still he lay! Never would that -face speak or laugh or see again. Although sixty-five, his head was covered -with short, thick, iron-grey hair; the beard, too, was short and thick, and -iron-grey. The face was rugged, and when Emily touched the coarse hand, -telling of a life of toil, she started—it was singularly cold. Fear and -sorrow in like measure choked her, and her soul awoke, and tremblingly she -walked out of the house, glad to breathe the sweet evening air.</p> - -<p>She walked towards the artificial water. The sky was melancholy and -grey, and the park lay before her, hushed and soundless. Through the -shadows of the darkening island two swans floated softly, leaving behind -slight silver lines; above, the swallows flew high in the evening. There -was sensation of death, <a name="094.png" class="pb"></a> too, in this -cold, mournful water, and in the silence that hung about it, and in some -vague way it reminded Emily of her own life. She had known little else but -death; her life seemed full of death; and those reflections, so distinct -and so colourless, were like death.</p> - -<p>Then, in a sudden expansion of youth she wondered. Her own life, how -strange, how personal, how intense! What did it mean, what meaning had it -in the great, wide world? And the impressive tranquillity, the pale death -of the day, lying like a flower on the water, seemed to symbolise her -thought, and she felt more distinctly than she had ever done before. And -there arose in her a nervous and passionate interest in herself. She seemed -so strange, so wonderful. Her childhood was in itself an enigma. That sad -and sorrowful childhood of hers, passed in that old London house; her -mother's love for her; her cruel, stern stepfather, and the endless -quarrels between her father and mother, which made her young life so -unbearable, so wretched, that she could never think of those years without -tears rising to her eyes. And then the going away, coming to live with Mr. -Burnett! The death of her father and her dear mother, so sudden, following -so soon one after the other. How much there had been <a name="095.png" -class="pb"></a> in her life, how wonderful it was! Her love of Mr. Burnett, -and then that bitter and passionate change in him! That proposal of -marriage; could she ever forget it? And then this cruel and sudden death. -Everything she had ever loved had been taken from her. Only Julia remained, -and should Julia be taken from her, she felt that she must die. But that -would not, could not, happen. She was now mistress of Ashwood, she was a -great heiress; and she and Julia would live always together, they would -always love one another, they would always live here in this beautiful -place which they loved so well.</p> - -<a name="096.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>VIII</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">There</span> were at the funeral a few personal -friends who lived in the neighbourhood, the farmers on the estate, and the -labourers; and when the little crowd separated outside the church, Emily -and Julia walked back to Ashwood with Mr. Grandly, Mr. Burnett's intimate -friend and solicitor. They returned through the park, hardly speaking at -all, Emily absent-minded as usual, waving her parasol occasionally at a -passing butterfly. The grass was warm and beautiful to look on, and they -lingered, prolonging the walk. It was very good of Mr. Grandly to accompany -them back; he might have gone on straight to the station, so Julia thought, -and she was surprised indeed when, instead of bidding them good-bye at the -front door, he said—</p> - -<p>'Before I return to London I have a communication to make to both you -ladies. Will it suit you to come into the drawing-room with me?'</p> - -<p>'Perfectly, so far as I'm concerned; and you, Emily?'</p> - -<a name="097.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Oh, I've nothing to do; but if it is about business, Julia will -attend——'</p> - -<p>'I think you had better be present, Miss Watson.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Grandly was a tall, massive man with benevolent features; his bald, -pink skull was partly covered with one lock of white hair. There was an -anxious look in his pale, deep-set eyes which impressed Julia, and she -said: 'I hope this communication you have to make to us is not of a painful -nature. We have——'</p> - -<p>'Yes, Mrs. Bentley, I know that you have been severely tried lately, but -there is no help for it. I cannot keep you in ignorance any longer of -certain facts relating to Mr. Burnett's will.' The words 'will' and 'facts' -struck on Emily's ear. She had been thinking about her fortune. The very -ground she was walking on was hers. She was the owner of this beautiful -park; it seemed like a fairy tale. And that house, that dear, old-fashioned -house, that rambling, funny old place of all sizes and shapes, full of deep -staircases and pictures, was hers. Her eyes wandered along the smooth wide -drive, down to the placid water crossed by the great ornamental bridge, the -island where she had watched the swans floating last night—all these -things were hers. So the words 'will' and 'facts' and 'ignorance of them' -jarred her clutching <a name="098.png" class="pb"></a> little dream, and -she turned her eyes—they wore an anxious look—towards Mr. Grandly, and -said with an authoritative air: 'Yes, let us go into the drawing-room; I -want to hear what Mr. Grandly has to say about——Let us go into the -drawing-room at once.'</p> - -<p>Julia took the chair nearest to her. Emily stood at the window, waiting -impatiently for Mr. Grandly to begin. He laid his hat on the parquet, wiped -his forehead with his handkerchief, and drew an arm-chair forward. 'Mr. -Burnett, as you know, made a will some years ago, in favour of his cousin -and adopted daughter, Miss Emily Watson. In that will he left his entire -fortune to her, Ashwood Park and all his invested money. No other person -was mentioned in that will, except Miss Watson. It was I who drew up this -will. I remember discussing its provisions with Mr. Burnett, and advising -him to leave something, even if it were only a few hundred pounds, to his -nephew, Hubert Price. But Mr. Burnett was always a very headstrong man; he -had quarrelled with this young man, as he said, irreparably, and could not -be induced to leave him even a hundred pounds. I thought this was harsh, -and as Mr. Burnett's friend I told him so—I have always been opposed to -extreme measures,—but he was not to be gainsaid. So the matter remained -for many <a name="099.png" class="pb"></a> years; never did Mr. Burnett -mention his nephew's name. I thought he had forgotten the young man's -existence, when, suddenly, without warning, Mr. Burnett came into my office -and told me that he intended to alter his will, leaving all his property to -his nephew, Hubert Price. You know what old friends we were, and, presuming -on our friendship, I told him what I thought of his project of -disinheritance, for it amounted to that. Well, suffice it to say, we very -nearly quarrelled over the matter. I refused to draw up the will, so -iniquitous did it seem to me. He said: "Very well, Grandly, I'll go -elsewhere." Then I remembered that if I allowed him to go elsewhere I -should lose all hold over him, and I consented to draw up the will.'</p> - -<p>Emily listened, a vague expression of pain in her pathetic eyes. Then -this house, this room where she was sitting, was not hers, and a strange -man would come soon and drive her away!</p> - -<p>'And he has left Ashwood to Mr. Price, is not that his name?' she said, -abruptly.</p> - -<p>'Yes; he has left Ashwood to Mr. Price.'</p> - -<p>'And when did he make this new will?'</p> - -<p>'I think it is just about a month ago.'</p> - -<p>Emily leaned forward, and her great eyes, full of light and sorrow, were -fixed in space, her little pale <a name="100.png" class="pb"></a> hands -linked, and the great mass of chestnut hair slipping from the comb. She -was, in truth, at that moment the subject of a striking picture, and she -was even more impressive when she said, speaking slowly: 'Then that old man -was even wickeder than I thought. Oh, what I have learned in the last three -or four weeks! Oh, what wickedness, what wickedness!... But go on,' she -said, looking at Mr. Grandly; 'tell me all.'</p> - -<p>'I suppose there was some very serious reason, but on that point Mr. -Burnett absolutely refused to answer me. He said his reasons were his own, -and that he intended to leave his money to whom he pleased.'</p> - -<p>'There was——' Julia stopped short, and looked interrogatively at -Emily.</p> - -<p>'Go on, Julia, tell him; we have nothing to conceal.'</p> - -<p>'Mr. Burnett asked Emily to marry him a short time ago; she, of course, -refused, and ever since he seemed more like——'</p> - -<p>'A madman than anything else,' broke in Emily. 'Oh, for the last month -we have led a miserable life! It was a happy release.'</p> - -<p>'Is it possible,' said Mr. Grandly, 'that Mr. Burnett seriously -contemplated marriage with Miss Watson?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, and her refusal seemed to drive him out of his mind.'</p> - -<a name="101.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'I never was more surprised.' The placid face of the eminently -respectable solicitor lapsed into contemplation. 'I often tried,' he said, -suddenly, 'to divine the reason why he changed his will. Disappointed love -seemed the only conceivable reason, but I rejected it as being quite -inconceivable. Well, it only shows how little we know what is passing in -each other's minds.'</p> - -<p>'Then,' said Julia, 'Mr. Burnett has divided his fortune, leaving -Ashwood to Mr. Price, and all his invested money to Emily?'</p> - -<p>A look of pain passed over Mr. Grandly's benevolent face, and he -answered: 'Unfortunately he has left everything to Mr. Price.'</p> - -<p>'I'm glad,' exclaimed Emily, 'that he has left me nothing. Once he -thought fit to disinherit me because I would not marry him, I prefer not to -have anything to do with his money.'</p> - -<p>Mr. Grandly and Julia looked at each other; they did not need to speak; -each knew that the girl did not realise at once the full and irretrievable -nature of this misfortune. The word 'destitute' was at present unrealised, -and she only thought that she had been deprived of what she loved best in -the world—Ashwood. Mr. Grandly glanced at her, and then speaking a little -more hurriedly, said—</p> - -<a name="102.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'I was saying just now that I only consented to draw up the will so that -I might be able at some future time to induce Mr. Burnett to add a codicil -to it. Later on I spoke to him again on the subject, and he promised to -consider it, and a few days after he wrote to me, saying that he had -decided to take my advice and add a codicil. Subsequently, in another -letter he mentioned three hundred a year as being the sum he thought he -would be in honour bound to leave Miss Watson. Unfortunately, he did not -live long enough to carry this intention into execution. But the letters he -addressed to me on the subject exist, and I have every hope that the heir, -Mr. Price, will be glad to make some provision for his cousin.'</p> - -<p>'Have you any reason for thinking that Mr. Price will do so?' said -Julia.</p> - -<p>'No. But it seems impossible for any honourable man to act -otherwise.'</p> - -<p>'He cannot bear enmity against Emily, who of course knew nothing of his -quarrel with his uncle. Do you know anything about Mr. Price? What is he? -Where does he live?'</p> - -<p>'He is a literary man, I believe. I have heard that he writes -plays!'</p> - -<p>'Oh, a writer of plays.'</p> - -<a name="103.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Yes. I am glad of it; he may be easier to deal with. I daresay it is a -mistaken notion, but one is apt to imagine that these artist folk are more -generous with their money than ordinary mortals.'</p> - -<p>'Is he married?' said Julia, and involuntarily she glanced toward -Emily.</p> - -<p>Mr. Grandly, too, looked toward the girl, and then he said: 'I don't -know if Mr. Price is married; I hope not.'</p> - -<p>'Why do you hope so?' said Emily, suddenly.</p> - -<p>'Because if he isn't, there will only be one person to deal with. If he -had a wife, she would have a voice in the matter; and in such circumstances -as ours a man is easier to deal with. I earnestly hope Mr. Hubert Price is -not married, and shall consider it a great point in our favour if on -returning to town I find he is not.' Then assuming a lighter tone, for the -nervous strain of the last ten minutes had been intense, he said: 'If he is -not married, who knows—you may take a fancy to him, and he to you; then -things would be just the same as before—only better.'</p> - -<p>'I should not marry him—I hate him already. I wonder how you can think -of such a thing, Mr. Grandly? You know that he must be a very wicked man -for uncle to have disinherited him. I have always heard that<a -name="104.png" class="pb"></a>—but I don't know what I am saying.' Tears -welled up into her eyes. 'I daresay my cousin is not so bad as—but I can -talk no more.... I am very miserable, I have always been miserable, and I -don't know why; I never did harm to any one.'</p> - -<p>Soon after Mr. Grandly bade the ladies good-bye. Julia followed him to -the front door. 'You will do all you can to help us? That poor child is too -young, too inexperienced, to realise what her position is.'</p> - -<p>'I know, I know,' said Mr. Grandly, extending both hands to Julia; 'in -the whole course of my experience I never met with a sadder case. But we -must not take too sad a view of it. Perhaps all will come right in the end. -The young man cannot refuse to make good his uncle's intentions. He cannot -see his cousin go to the workhouse. I will do the best I can for you. The -moment I get back to London, I'll set inquiries on foot and find out his -address, and when I have seen him I'll write. Good-bye.'</p> - -<p>Then, resolving that it were better to leave the girl to herself, Julia -took up her key-basket and hurried away on household business. But in the -middle of her many occupations she would now and then stop short to think. -She had never heard of anything so cruel before. That poor girl—she must -go to her; she must <a name="105.png" class="pb"></a> not leave her alone -any longer. But it would be well to avoid the subject as much as possible. -She must think of something to distract her thoughts. The pony-chaise. It -might be the last time they had a carriage to go out in. But they could not -go out driving on the day of the funeral.</p> - -<p>That evening, as they were going to bed, Emily said, lifting her sweet, -pathetic little face, looking all love and gentleness: 'Oh, to think of a -common, vulgar writer coming here, with a common, vulgar wife and a horrid -crowd of children. Oh, Julia, doesn't it seem impossible? And yet I suppose -it is true. I cannot bear to think of it. I can see the horrid children -tramping up and down the stairs, breaking the things we have known and -loved so long; and they will destroy all my flowers, and no one will -remember to feed the poor swans. Dandy, my beloved, I shall be able to take -you with me.' And she caught up the rough-haired terrier and hugged him, -kissing his dear old head. 'Dandy is mine; they can't take him from me, can -they? But do you think the swans belong to them or to us? I suppose it -would be impossible to take them with us if we go to live in London. They -couldn't live in a backyard.'</p> - -<p>'But, dearest Emily, who are "they"? You don't <a name="106.png" -class="pb"></a> know that he is married—literary men don't often marry. -For all you know, he is a handsome young man, who will fall madly in love -with you.'</p> - -<p>'No one ever fell in love with me except that horrid old man—how I hate -him, how I detest to think of it! I thought I should have died when he -asked to marry me. The very memory of it is enough to make me hate all men, -and prevent me from liking any one. I don't think I could like him; I -should always see that wicked old man's hoary, wrinkled face in his.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, Emily, I cannot think how such ideas can come into your head. It is -not right, indeed it isn't.' And this simple Englishwoman looked at this -sensitive girl in sheer wonderment and alarm.</p> - -<p>'I only say what I think. I am glad the old man did disinherit me. I'm -glad we are leaving Ashwood; I cannot abide the place when I think of -him.... There, that is his chair. I can see him sitting in it now. He is -grinning at us; he is saying, "Ha! ha! I have made beggars of you both." -You remember how we used to tremble when we met his terrible old face on -the stairs; you remember how he used to sit glaring at us all through -dinner?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, Emily, I remember all that; but I do not think it natural that you -should forget all the years of <a name="107.png" class="pb"></a> kindness; -he was very good to you, and loved you very much, and if he forgot himself -at the end of his life, we must remember the weakness of age.'</p> - -<p>'The hideousness of age,' Emily replied, in a low tone. The conversation -paused, and then Julia said—</p> - -<p>'You are speaking wildly, Emily, and will live to regret your words. Let -us speak no more of Mr. Burnett... I daresay you will find your cousin a -charming young man. I should laugh if it were all to end in a marriage. And -how glad I should be to see you off on your honeymoon, to bid you -good-bye!'</p> - -<p>'Oh, Julia, don't speak like that; you will never bid me good-bye. You -will never leave me—promise me that—you are my only friend. Oh, Julia, -promise me that you will never leave me.'</p> - -<p>Tears rose in Julia's eyes, and taking the girl in her arms, she said, -'I'll never leave you, my dear girl, until you yourself wish it.'</p> - -<p>'I wish it? Oh, Julia, you do not know me. I have lost everything, -Julia, but I mustn't lose you... After all, it doesn't so much matter, so -long as we are not separated. I don't care about money, and we can have a -nice little house in London all to ourselves. And if we get too hard up, -we'll both go out as daily governesses. I think I could teach a little -music, to <a name="108.png" class="pb"></a> young children, you know; you'd -teach the older ones.' Emily looked at Julia inquiringly, and going over to -the piano, attempted to play her favourite polka. Julia, who had once -worked for her daily bread, and earned it in a sort of way by giving -music-lessons, smiled sadly at the girl's ignorance of life.</p> - -<p>'I see,' said Emily, who was quick to divine every shade of sentiment -passing in the minds of those she loved; 'you don't think I could teach -even the little children.'</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily, I hope it will never come to your having to try.'</p> - -<p>'I must do something to get a living,' she replied, looking vaguely and -wistfully into the fire. 'How unfortunate all this is—that horrid, horrid -old man. But supposing he had asked you to marry him—he wasn't nice, but -you are older than I, and if you had married him you would have become, in -a way, my stepmother. But what a charming stepmother! Oh, how I should have -loved that!'</p> - -<p>'Come, Emily, it is time to go to bed; you let your imagination run away -with you.'</p> - -<p>'Julia, you are not cross because——'</p> - -<p>'No, dear, I'm not cross. I'm only a little tired. We have talked too -long.'</p> - -<a name="109.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>Emily's allusion to music-teaching had revived in Julia all her most -painful memories. If this man were to cast them penniless out of Ashwood! -Supposing, supposing that were to happen? Starving days, pale and haggard, -rose up in her memory. What should she do, what should she do, and with -that motherless girl dependent on her for food and clothes and shelter? She -buried her face in the pillow and prayed that she might be saved from such -a destiny.</p> - -<p>If this man—this unknown creature—were to refuse to help them, she and -Emily would have to go to London, and she would have to support Emily as -best she might. She would hold to her and fight for her with all her -strength, but would she not fall vanquished in the fight; and then, and -then? The same thoughts, questions, and fears turned in her head like a -wheel, and it was not until dawn had begun to whiten the window-panes that -she fell asleep.</p> - -<p>A few days after, the post brought a letter for Julia. After glancing -hastily down the page she said: 'This is a letter from Mr. Grandly, and it -is good news. Oh, what a relief!...'</p> - -<p>'Read it.'</p> - -<blockquote> <p>'"<span class="small-caps">Dear Mrs. Bentley</span>,—Immediately I arrived in London, I set to work to find -out Mr. Price's address. It <a name="110.png" class="pb"></a> was the -easiest matter in the world, for he has a play now running at one of the -theatres. So I directed my letter to the theatre, and next morning I had a -visit from him. After explaining to him the resources of the brilliant -fortune he had come into, I told him of his uncle's intention to add a -codicil to his will, leaving Miss Watson three hundred a year; I told him -that this last will had left her entirely unprovided for. He said, at once, -that he fully agreed with me, and that he would consider what was the most -honourable course for him to take in regard to his 'cousin. This is exactly -what he said, but his manner was such that before leaving he left no doubt -in my mind whatever that he will act very generously indeed. I should not -be surprised if he settled even more than the proposed three hundred a year -on Miss Watson. He is a very quiet, thoughtful young man of about two or -three and thirty. He looks poor, and I fancy he has lived through very hard -times. He wears an air of sadness and disappointment which makes him -attractive, and his manners are gentle and refined. I tell you these -things, for I know they will interest you. I have not been able to find out -if he is married, but I am sorry to say that his play has not succeeded. I -should have found out more, but he was not in my office above ten minutes; -he had to hurry away to keep an appointment at the theatre, for, as he -explained, it was to be decided that very day if the play was to be taken -out of the bills at the end of the week. He promised to call again, and our -interview is fixed for eleven o'clock the day after to-morrow. In the -meantime take heart, for I think I am justified in telling you I feel quite -sanguine as to the result."'</p> </blockquote> - -<a name="111.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Well,' said Julia, laying down the letter, 'I don't think that anything -could be more satisfactory, and just fancy dear old Mr. Grandly being able -to describe a young man as well as that.'</p> - -<p>'He doesn't say if he is short or tall, or dark or fair.'</p> - -<p>'No, he doesn't. I think he might have told us something about his -personal appearance, but it is a great relief to hear that he is not the -vulgar Bohemian we have always understood him to be. Mr. Grandly says his -manners are refined; you might take a fancy to him after all.'</p> - -<p>'But you don't know that he isn't married. I suppose Mr. Grandly wasn't -able to find that out. I should like to know—but not because I want to -marry him or any one else; only I don't like the idea of a great, vulgar -woman, and a pack of children scampering about the place when we go.'</p> - -<p>'Do you dislike children so much, then, Emily?'</p> - -<p>'I don't know that I ever thought about them; but I'm sure I shouldn't -like his children. I dreamt of him last night. Do you believe in -dreams?'</p> - -<p>'What did you dream?'</p> - -<p>'I cannot remember, but I woke up crying, feeling more unhappy than I -ever felt in my life before. It is <a name="112.png" class="pb"></a> -curious that I should dream of him last night, and that you should receive -that letter this morning, isn't it?'</p> - -<p>'I don't see anything strange in it. Nothing more natural than that you -should dream about him, and it was certain that I should receive a letter -from Mr. Grandly; he promised to write to me in a few days.'</p> - -<p>'Then you believe what is in that letter—I don't. Something tells me -that he will not act kindly, but I don't know how.'</p> - -<p>'I'm quite sure you are wrong, Emily. Mr. Grandly would never have -written this letter unless he knew for certain that Mr. Price would do all -or more than he promised.'</p> - -<p>'I can't see from the letter that he has promised anything... Even if he -does give me three hundred a year, I shall have to leave Ashwood.'</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily, I'm cross with you: of course, if you will insist on -always looking at the melancholy side.... Now I'm going; I've to see after -the housekeeping. Are you going into the garden?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, presently.'</p> - -<p>Emily did not seem to know what she was going to do. She looked out of -the window, she lingered in the corridor; finally she wandered into the -library. The <a name="113.png" class="pb"></a> quaint, old-fashioned room -recalled her childhood to her. It was here she used to learn her lessons. -Here was the mahogany table, at which she used to sit with her governess, -learning to read and write; and there, far away at the other end of the -long room, was the round table, where lay the old illustrated editions of -<i>Gulliver's Travels</i> and <i>The Arabian Nights</i>, which she used to -run to whenever her governess left the room. And at the bottom of the -book-cases there were drawers full of strange papers; these drawers she -used to open in fear and trembling, so mysterious did they seem to her. And -there was the book-cases full of the tall folios, behind which lay, in dark -and dim recesses, stores of books which she used to pull out, expecting at -every moment to come upon long-forgotten treasures. She smiled now, as she -recalled these childish imaginings, and lifting tenderly the coarse -drugget, she looked at the great green globe which her fingers used to turn -in infantile curiosity.</p> - -<p>Then leaving the library, she roamed through the house, pausing on the -first landing to gaze on the picture of the fine gentleman in a red coat, -his hand for ever on his sword. She remembered how she used to wonder whom -he was going to kill, and how sure she used to feel that at last he would -grant his adversary <a name="114.png" class="pb"></a> his life. And close -by was the picture of the wind-mill, set on the edge of the down, with the -shepherd driving sheep in the foreground. Her whole life seemed drenched -with tears at the thought of parting with these things. Every room was full -of memories for her. She was a little girl when she came to live at -Ashwood, and the room at the top of the stairs had been her nursery. There -were the two beds; both were now dismantled and bare. It was in the little -bed in the corner that she used to sleep; it was in the old four-poster -that her nurse slept. And there was the very place, in front of the fire, -where she used to have her tea. The table had disappeared, and the grate, -how rusty it was! In the far corner, by the window, there used to be a -press, in which nurse kept tea and sugar. That press had been removed. The -other press was there still, and throwing open the doors she surveyed the -shelves. She remembered the very peg on which her hat and jacket used to -hang. And the long walks in the great park, which was to her, then, a world -of wonderment!</p> - -<p>She wandered about the old corridor, in and out of odd rooms, all -associated with her childhood—quaint old rooms, many of them lumber rooms, -full of odd corners and old cupboards, the meaning of which she <a -name="115.png" class="pb"></a> used to strive to divine. How their silence -and mystery used to thrill her little soul! Faded rooms whose mystery had -departed, but whose gloom was haunted with tenderest recollections. In one -corner was the reading-chair in which Mr. Burnett used to sit. At that time -she used to sit on his knee, and when the chair gave way beneath their -weight, he had said she was too big a girl to sit on his knee any longer. -The words had seemed to her a little cruel. She had forgotten the old -chair, but now she remembered the very moment when the servants came to -take it away.</p> - -<p>Under the window were some fragments of a china bowl which she had -broken when quite a little child. There was a hoop-stick and the hoop which -had been taken down to the blacksmith's to be mended. He had mended it, but -she did not remember ever using it again. And there was an old box of -water-colours, with which she used to colour all the uncoloured drawings in -her picture-books. Emily took the hoop-stick, the old doll, and the broken -box of water-colours, and packed them away carefully. She would be able to -find room for them in the little house in London where she and Julia were -going to live.</p> - -<p>A few days after, the post brought letters from Mr. <a name="116.png" -class="pb"></a> Grandly, one for Emily and one for Julia. Julia's letter -ran as follows:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>'<span class="small-caps">Dear Mrs. Bentley</span>,—-I write by this -post to Miss Watson, advising her that her cousin, Mr. Price, is most -anxious to make her acquaintance, and asking her to send the dog-cart -to-morrow to meet him at the station. I must take upon myself the -responsibility for this step. I have seen Mr. Price again, and he has -confirmed me in my good opinion of him. He seems most anxious, not only to -do everything right, but to make matters as pleasant and agreeable as -possible for his cousin. He has written me a letter recognising Miss -Watson's claim upon him, and constituting himself her trustee. I have not -had yet time to prepare a deed of gift, but there can be little doubt that -Miss Watson's position is now quite secure. So far so good; but more than -ever does the only clear and satisfactory way out of this miserable -business seem to me to be a marriage between Mr. Hubert Price and Miss -Watson. I have already told you that he is a nice, refined young man, of -gentlemanly bearing, good presence, and excellent speech, though a trifle -shy and reserved; and, as I have since discovered that he is not married, I -have taken upon myself the responsibility of advising him to jump into a -train and to go and tell his cousin the conclusion he has come to regarding -the will of the late Mr. Burnett. As I have said, he is a shy man, and it -was some time before I could induce him to take so decisive a step; he -wanted to meet Miss Watson in my office, but I succeeded in persuading him. -He will go down to you to-morrow by the five o'clock, and I need not -impress upon <a name="117.png" class="pb"></a> you the necessity that you -should use your influence with Miss Watson, and that his reception should -be as cordial as circumstances permit. I have only to add that I see no -need that you should show this letter to Miss Watson, for the very fact of -knowing that we desired to bring about a marriage might prejudice her -against this young man, whom she otherwise cannot fail to find -charming.'</p> </blockquote> - -<p>Hearing some one at her door, Julia put the letter away. It was -Emily.</p> - -<p>'I've just received a letter from Mr. Grandly, saying that that man is -coming here to-day, and that we are to send the dog-cart for him.'</p> - -<p>'Is not that the very best thing that——'</p> - -<p>'We cannot remain here, we must leave a note for him, or something of -that kind. I wouldn't remain here to meet him for worlds. I really -couldn't, Julia.'</p> - -<p>'And why not, Emily?'</p> - -<p>'To meet the man who is coming to turn me out of Ashwood!'</p> - -<p>'How do you know that he is coming to turn you out of Ashwood? You -imagine these things.... Do you suppose that Mr. Grandly would send him -down here if he did not know what his intentions were?'</p> - -<p>'But we shall have to leave Ashwood.'</p> - -<p>'Very likely, but not in the way you imagine. Remember, <a -name="118.png" class="pb"></a> Mr. Price is your cousin; you may like him -very much. Let's be guided by Mr. Grandly; I have not seen your letter, but -apparently he advises us to remain here and receive him.'</p> - -<p>'I don't think I can, Julia. I have misgivings.'</p> - -<p>'Have you been dreaming again?'</p> - -<p>'No; I've not been dreaming, but I have misgivings.'</p> - -<p>'You are a silly little goose, Emily. Come and give me a kiss, and -promise to take my advice.'</p> - -<p>'Dearest Julia, you do love me, don't you? Promise me that we shall not -be separated, and then I don't mind.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, dear, I promise you that, and you will promise me to try to like -your cousin?'</p> - -<p>'I'll try, Julia, but I'm awfully frightened, and—I don't think I could -like him, no matter what he was like. I feel a sort of hatred in my heart. -Don't you know what I mean?' And the girl looked questioningly into her -friend's eyes.</p> - -<a name="119.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>IX</h2> - -<p>'<span class="small-caps">I am</span> Miss Watson,' she said in her low -musical voice, 'and this is my friend, Mrs. Bentley.' Hubert bowed, and -sought for words. He found none, and the irritating silence was broken -again by Miss Watson. 'Won't you sit down?' she said.</p> - -<p>'Thank you.' He pulled off his gloves. The pained, troubled look which -he had met in Miss Watson's face seemed a reproach, and he regretted not -having followed his own idea, and invited the young lady to meet him at Mr. -Grandly's office. He glanced nervously from one lady to the other.</p> - -<p>'I hope you have had a pleasant journey, Mr. Price,' said Mrs. Bentley. -'The country is looking very beautiful just at present. Do you know this -part of the country?' Mrs. Bentley's words were very welcome, and Hubert -replied eagerly—</p> - -<p>'No; I do not know the country at all well. I have been very little out -of London for some years, but I hope now to see more of the country. This -is a beautiful place.'</p> - -<a name="120.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>At that moment he met Mrs. Bentley's eyes, and, feeling that he was -touching on delicate ground, he stopped speaking. When he turned his head, -he met Miss Watson's great sad eyes, which seemed to absorb the entire -face, fixed upon him. They expressed such depth of pathetic appeal that he -trembled with apprehension, and the instinct in him was to beg for pardon. -But it became suddenly necessary to say something, and, speaking at random, -his head full of whirling words, he said—</p> - -<p>'Of course nothing could be more sad than my poor uncle's death,—so -unexpected... Having lived so long together, you must have——' Then it was -Hubert's turn to look appealingly at Miss Watson; but her great eyes seemed -to say, 'Go on, go on; heap cruelty on cruelty!' Then he plunged -desperately, hoping to retrieve his mistakes. 'He died about a month ago. -Mr. Grandly told me I should still find you here, so I thought——'</p> - -<p>The intensity of his emotion perhaps caused Hubert to accentuate his -words, so that they conveyed a meaning different from that which he -intended. Certainly his hesitations were capable of misinterpretation, and -Miss Watson said, her voice trembling,—</p> - -<p>'Of course we know we have no right here, we are <a name="121.png" -class="pb"></a> intruding; but we are making preparations.... I daresay -that to-morrow we shall be able to——'</p> - -<p>'Oh, I beg pardon, Miss Watson; let me assure you ... I am sorry -if——'</p> - -<p>Taking a little handkerchief out of her black dress, Emily covered her -face in her thin, tiny hands. She sobbed aloud, and ran out of the room. -Hubert turned to Mrs. Bentley, his face full of consternation.</p> - -<p>'I am very sorry, but she did not give me time to speak. Will you go and -fetch her, Mrs. Bentley? I want to tell her I hope she will never leave -Ashwood. ... I believe she thinks that I came down here to ask her to leave -as soon as possible. It is really quite awful that she should think such a -thing.'</p> - -<p>'She is an exceedingly sensitive girl, and is now a little overwrought. -The events of the last month have proved too much for her.'</p> - -<p>'Mr. Grandly informed me that it was Mr. Burnett's intention to add a -codicil to his will, leaving Miss Watson three hundred a year. This money I -am prepared to give her, and I'm quite sure she is welcome to stay here as -long as she pleases. Indeed, she will do me a great favour by remaining. -Please go and tell her. I cannot bear to see a girl cry; to hear her sob -like that is quite terrible.'</p> - -<a name="122.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'You will be able to tell her yourself during the course of the evening. -I think it will come better from you.'</p> - -<p>'After what has happened, it will be very difficult for me to meet her -until she is informed that she is mistaken. I charged Mr. Grandly to -explain everything in his letter. Apparently he omitted to do so.'</p> - -<p>'He only said you wanted to see Emily on a matter of business. Of course -we did not expect such generosity.'</p> - -<p>They were standing quite close together, and suddenly Hubert became -conscious of Mrs. Bentley's beauty. Her blue eyes were at that moment full -of tender admiration for the instinctive generosity which Hubert so -unwittingly exhibited, and her eyes told what was passing in her soul. -Suddenly they both seemed to understand each other better, and, playing -with the bracelet on her arm, she said—</p> - -<p>'You do not know Emily; she is strangely sensitive. But I will go and -try to persuade her to return.... Although only distantly related, you are -cousins, after all—are you not?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, we are cousins, but the relationship is remote. Tell her -everything; beg of her to come down-stairs.'</p> - -<p>Hubert imagined Emily's little black figure thrown <a name="123.png" -class="pb"></a> upon her bed, sobbing convulsively. He was very much -agitated, and looked about the room, at first hardly seeing it. At last its -novelty drew his thoughts from his cousin's tears, and he wondered what was -the history of the house. 'The old man,' he thought, 'bought it all, -furniture and ancestors, from some ruined landowner, and attempted very few -alterations—that's clear.' Then he reproached himself. 'How could I have -been so stupid? I did not know what I was saying. I was so horribly -nervous. Those strange eyes of hers quite upset me. I do hope Mrs. Bentley -will tell her that I wish to act generously, that I am prepared to do -everything in my power to make her happy. Poor little thing! She looks as -if she had never been happy.' Again the room drew Hubert's thoughts away -from his cousin. It was still lit with the faint perfumed glow of the -sunset. The paint of the old decorations was cracked and faded. A man in a -plum-coloured coat with gold facings fixed his eyes upon him, and the tall -lady in blue satin had no doubt played there in short clothes. He walked up -and down, he turned over the music on the piano, and, hearing a step, -looked round. It was only the servant coming to tell him that his room was -ready.</p> - -<p>He dressed for dinner, hoping to find the two ladies <a name="124.png" -class="pb"></a> in the drawing-room, and it was a disappointment to find -only Mrs. Bentley there.</p> - -<p>'I have told Emily everything you said. She is very grateful, and begs -of me to thank you for your kind intentions. But I am afraid you must -excuse her absence from dinner. I really don't think she is in a fit state -to come down; she couldn't possibly take part in the conversation.'</p> - -<p>'But why? I hope she isn't ill? Had we better send for the doctor?'</p> - -<p>'Oh no; she'll be all right in the morning. She has been crying. She -suffers from depression of spirits. She is, I assure you, all right,' said -Mrs. Bentley, replying to Hubert's alarmed and questioning face. 'I assure -you there is no need for you to reproach yourself. Dinner is ready.' She -took his arm, and they went into the dining-room.</p> - -<p>No further mention was made of Mr. Burnett, of money matters, or of the -young lady up-stairs; and with considerable tact Mrs. Bentley introduced -the subject of literature, alluding gracefully to Hubert's position as a -dramatist.</p> - -<p>'Your play, <i>Divorce</i>, is now running at the Queen's Theatre?'</p> - -<p>No; I'm sorry to say it was taken out of the bills <a name="125.png" -class="pb"></a> last Saturday. Saturday night was the last -performance.'</p> - -<p>'That was not a long run. And the papers spoke so favourably of it.'</p> - -<p>'It is a play that only appeals to the few.' And, encouraged by Mrs. -Bentley's manner, Hubert told her how happy endings and comic love-scenes -were essential to secure a popular success.</p> - -<p>'I am afraid you will think me very stupid, but I do not quite -understand.'</p> - -<p>In a quiet, unobtrusive way Hubert was a graceful talker, and he knew -how to adapt his theme, and bring it within the circle of the sympathies of -his listeners. There was some similarity of temperament between himself and -Mrs. Bentley; they were both quiet, fair, meditative Saxons. She lent her -whole mind to the conversation, interested in the account that the young -man gave of his dramatic aspirations.</p> - -<p>From the dining-room window looking over the park the long road wound -through the vaporous country. The town stood in the middle distance, its -colour blotted out, and its smoke hardly distinguishable. In the room a -yellow dress turned grey, and the gold of a bracelet grew darker, and the -pink of delicate finger-nails was no longer visible. But the <a -name="126.png" class="pb"></a> pensive dusk of the dining-room, which -blackened the claret in the decanters, leaving only the faintest ruby glow -in the glass which Hubert raised to his lips, suited the tenor of the -conversation, which had wandered from the dramatic to the social side of -the question. What did he think of divorce? She sighed, and he wondered -what her story might be.</p> - -<p>They passed out of the dining-room, and stood on the gravel, watching -the night gathering in the open country. In the light of the moon, which -had just risen above the woods, the white road grew whiter, the town was -faintly seen in the tide of blue vapour, which here and there allowed a -field to appear. In the foreground a great silver fir, spiky and solitary, -rose up in the blue night. Beyond it was seen a corner of the ornamental -bridge. The island and its shadow were one black mass rising from the park -up to the level of the moon, which, a little to the right, between the town -and the island, lay reflected in a narrow strip of water. Farther away some -reeds were visible in the illusive light, and the meditative chatter of -dozing ducks stirred the silence which wrapped the country like a -cloak.</p> - -<p>Hubert and Mrs. Bentley stood looking at the landscape. The fragrance of -his cigar, the presence of <a name="127.png" class="pb"></a> the woman, the -tenderness of the hour, combined to make him strangely happy; his past life -seemed to him like a harsh, cruel pain that had suddenly ceased. More than -he had ever desired seemed to be fulfilled; the reality exceeded the dream. -What greater happiness than to live here, and with this woman! His thoughts -paused, for he had forgotten the girl up-stairs. She was not happy; but he -would make her happy—of that he was quite certain. At that moment Mrs. -Bentley said—</p> - -<p>'I hope you like your home. Is not the prospect a lovely one?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; but I was thinking at that moment of Emily. I suppose I must -accustom myself to call her by her Christian name. She is my cousin, and we -are going to live together. But, by the way, she cannot stay here alone. I -hope—I may trust that you will remain with her?'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bentley turned her face towards him; he noticed the look of -pleasure that had passed into it.</p> - -<p>'Thank you; it is very good of you. I shall be glad to remain with Emily -as long as she cares for my society. It is needless to say I shall do my -best to deserve your approval.'</p> - -<a name="128.png" class="pb"></a> - -<a name="129.png" class="pb"></a> - -<div class="image"><a href="images/image04.jpeg"><img src="images/image04-thumb.jpeg" -align="left" alt="[drawing]"></a> - -"They dined at the Café Royal." </div> - -<br> - -<a name="130.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>Her voice fell, and he heard her sigh, and in his happiness it seemed to -him to be a pity that he should find unhappiness in others.</p> - -<p>They went into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bentley asked him if he liked -music, and she went to the piano and sang some Scotch songs very sweetly. -Then she took a book from the table and bade him good-night. She was sure -that he would excuse her. She must go and see after Emily.</p> - -<p>When the door closed, the woman who had just left him seemed like some -one he had seen in a dream; and still more shadowy and illusive did the -girl seem—that pale and plaintive beauty, looking like a pastel, who had -so troubled him with her enigmatic eyes! And the lodging-house that he had -left only a few hours ago! and Rose.</p> - -<p>On Sunday he had taken Rose out to dinner. They dined at the -Café-Royal. He had tried to talk to her about Hamilton Brown's new drama, -which they had just heard would follow <i>Divorce</i>; but he was unable to -detach his thoughts from Ashwood and the ladies he was going to visit -to-morrow evening. Hubert and Rose had felt like two school-fellows, one of -whom is leaving school; the link that had bound them had snapped; -henceforth their ways lay separate; and <a name="131.png" class="pb"></a> -they were sad at parting just as school-friends are sad.</p> - -<p>'You are not rich; you offered to lend me money once. I want to lend you -some now.'</p> - -<p>'Oh yes; five shillings, wasn't it?'</p> - -<p>'It doesn't matter what the sum was—we were both very poor -then——'</p> - -<p>'And I'm still poorer now.'</p> - -<p>'All the more reason why you should allow me to help you.... Allow me to -write you a cheque for a hundred pounds. I assure you I can afford it.'</p> - -<p>'I think I had better not.... I have some things I can sell.'</p> - -<p>'But you must not sell your things. Indeed, you must allow me——'</p> - -<p>'I think I'd rather not. I shall be all right—that is to say, if Ford -engages me for Brown's new piece; and I think he will.'</p> - -<p>'But if he doesn't?'</p> - -<p>'Then,' she said, with a sweet and natural smile, 'I'll write to you.... -We have been excellent friends—comrades—have we not?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, we have indeed, and I shall never forget. There is my address; -that will always find me.'</p> - -<p>He had written a play—a play that the most competent <a name="132.png" -class="pb"></a> 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 <i>The Gipsy</i>. 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 <i>The Modern Review</i>, 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 <i>The Gipsy</i>. 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.</p> - -<p>And then, in sensuous curiosity, his thoughts turned <a name="133.png" -class="pb"></a> on the pleasure of life in this beautiful house, in the -society of two charming women.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<a name="134.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>X</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">It</span> 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.</p> - -<p>'Emily! Emily!' he called. She stopped, turned, and stood looking at -him.</p> - -<a name="135.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Yes; she told me of your kind intentions. I have to thank you.'</p> - -<p>They walked on in silence, neither knowing what to say.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'I'm afraid he doesn't like me.'</p> - -<p>'He'll soon get to know you. Are you fond of animals?'</p> - -<p>'I don't know that I am, particularly.'</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<a name="136.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'Oh, you—you wicked Jack! Who would have <a name="137.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>Hubert and Emily strolled down a long walk, wondering what they should -talk about.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<a name="138.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Do you care for flowers?'</p> - -<p>'Not very much.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'And doesn't a human being ever forgive?'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'I don't think it probable.'</p> - -<a name="139.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'But we don't know for certain,' she said, fixing her great eyes on him. -'Do we?'</p> - -<p>'We know nothing for certain,' he answered; and then he said, 'You and -Mrs. Bentley have lived a long time together?'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'I have not always been happy. But tell me more about Mrs. Bentley.'</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'I have arranged all that,' Hubert answered <a name="140.png" -class="pb"></a> hurriedly. 'I spoke to her last night, and she has -consented to remain.'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'I think her an exceedingly pleasant woman, and I'm sure we shall all -get on very well together.'</p> - -<p>'But don't you think her very handsome?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; she is a handsome woman.'</p> - -<p>Nothing more was said. Emily drew meditatively on the gravel with the -point of her parasol. The gardeners looked up from their work.</p> - -<p>'I have to go now,' she said, raising her eyes timidly, 'to feed the -swans. You would not care to go so far?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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, <a name="141.png" -class="pb"></a> 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!'</p> - -<p>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 -<a name="142.png" class="pb"></a> swans propelled their freshness to and -fro, balancing themselves in the current where they knew the bread must -surely fall.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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 -<a name="143.png" class="pb"></a> affection Emily held one hand to him. -Playing gently with his ears, she said—</p> - -<p>'Did you ever see much of Mr. Burnett?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Yes; there was,' she said in a strangely decisive tone.</p> - -<p>'May I ask——'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<p>'So long as you know that I am no longer angry <a name="144.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>They walked several yards without speaking.</p> - -<p>'Do you not think I was right? I was only eighteen, and he was over -sixty.'</p> - -<p>'It seems to me quite shocking that he could have even contemplated such -a thing.'</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'And because you refused to marry him, he did <a name="145.png" -class="pb"></a> not mention you in his will. I never heard of such -selfishness before!'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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?'</p> - -<p>'I promise you.'</p> - -<p>They had now reached the tennis-lawn. The gong <a name="146.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<a name="147.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XI</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">On</span> 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.'</p> - -<p>'So I do, but——'</p> - -<p>'He's tired of us, and we had better leave,' Emily said, abruptly.</p> - -<p>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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'We cannot stay here without you,' Emily replied; 'we are your -guests.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<a name="148.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<p>'I'm sorry, Hubert; I did not mean to offend you. I'm very unlucky. -You'll forgive me.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'I like to stop here as long as you are here,' Emily said, in a low -voice. 'That is all I meant.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Of course,' said Julia, 'we poor country folk can hardly hope to amuse -you.'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>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 <a -name="149.png" class="pb"></a> 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?'</p> - -<p>And walking together, they seemed like an Italian greyhound and a tall, -shaggy setter.</p> - -<p>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. <a name="150.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>'My dear girl, all these things belong to Mr. Price; you really cannot -take them away without asking him.'</p> - -<p>'But he won't refuse; he'll let me have anything I like.'</p> - -<p>'He can't very well refuse, so I think it would be nicer on your part -not to ask for anything.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'You'd like to take the whole house with you if you could.'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'The landing would look very bare without it.'</p> - -<p>'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 <a -name="151.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'Now, Hubert, I want you. Are you asleep?'</p> - -<p>'Asleep! No, I was only thinking.' He threw his legs over the edge of -the low chair and stood up.</p> - -<p>'If I tell you what I want, you won't refuse me, will you?'</p> - -<p>'No,' he said smilingly; 'I don't think I shall.'</p> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<p>'But what, Emily?... You can have anything you want.'</p> - -<p>'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. <a name="152.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'Did you never break your resolutions?'</p> - -<p>'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. <a name="153.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'You are full of dreams, Emily.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'And it was in this room that you dreamed all those dreams?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; in this dear old room. You see that picture: that is one of the -things I intended to ask you to give me.'</p> - -<p>'What? That old, dilapidated print?'</p> - -<p>'You mustn't abuse my picture. I used to spend hours wondering if those -horsemen galloping so madly through the wood were robbers, and if they had -robbed the castle shown between the trees. I used to wonder if they would -succeed in escaping. They wouldn't <a name="154.png" class="pb"></a> gallop -their horses like that unless they were being pursued.... Can I have the -picture?'</p> - -<p>'Of course you can. Is that—that is not all you are going to ask me -for?'</p> - -<p>'I did think of asking you for a few more things. Do you mind?'</p> - -<p>'No, not the least. The more you ask for, the more I shall be -pleased.'</p> - -<p>'Then you must come down-stairs.'</p> - -<p>They went down to the next landing. Emily stopped before a bed-room, -and, looking at Hubert shyly and interrogatively, she said—</p> - -<p>'This is my room. I don't know if it is in a fit state to show you. I'm -not a very tidy girl. I'll look first.'</p> - -<p>'Yes; it will do,' she said, drawing back. 'You can look in. I want you -to give me that wardrobe. It isn't a very handsome one, but I've used it -ever since I was a little girl; it has a hollow top, and I used to hide -things there. Do you think you can spare it?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; I think I can,' he said, smiling.</p> - -<p>Then she led him up-stairs through the old lumber rooms, picking out -here and there some generally broken and always worthless piece of -furniture, pleading for it timidly, and strangely delighted when he <a -name="155.png" class="pb"></a> nodded, granting her every request. She -asked him to pull out what she had chosen from the <i>débris</i>, and a -curious collection they made in the passage—dim and worm-eaten pictures, -small book-cases, broken vases which she proposed mending.</p> - -<p>Hubert wiped the dust from his hands and coat-sleeves.</p> - -<p>'What a lot of things you have given me! Now we shall be able to get on -nicely with our furnishing.'</p> - -<p>'What furnishing?'</p> - -<p>'The furnishing of the little house in London where Julia and I are -going to live. You said you intended to add a hundred a year to the three -hundred a year which Mr. Burnett should have left me; I don't see why you -should do such a thing, but if you do we shall have four hundred a year to -live upon. Julia says that we shall then be able to afford to give fifty -pounds a year for a house. We can get a very nice little house, she says, -for that—of course, in one of the suburbs. The great expense will be the -furnishing; we are going to do it on the hire system. I daresay one can get -very nice things in that way, but I do want to make the place look a little -like Ashwood; that is why I'm asking you for these things. I was always -fond of playing in these old lumber-rooms, and these dim old <a -name="156.png" class="pb"></a> pictures, which I don't think any one knows -anything of except myself, will remind me of Ashwood. They will look very -well, indeed, hanging round our little dining-room. You are sure you don't -want them, do you?'</p> - -<p>'No; I won't want them. I'm only too pleased to be able to give them to -you.'</p> - -<p>'You are very good, indeed you are. Look at these old haymakers; I never -saw but one little corner of this picture before; it was stowed away behind -a lot of lumber, and I hadn't the strength to pull it out.... I'm afraid -you've got yourself rather dusty.'</p> - -<p>'Oh no; it will brush off.'</p> - -<p>'I shall hang this picture over the fireplace; it will look very well -there. I daresay you don't see anything in it, but I'd sooner have these -pictures than those down-stairs. I love the picture of the windmill on the -first landing——'</p> - -<p>'Then why not have it? I'll have it taken down at once.'</p> - -<p>'No; I could not think of taking it. How would the landing look without -it? I should miss it dreadfully when I came here—for I daresay you will -ask us to visit you occasionally, when you are lonely, won't you?'</p> - -<a name="157.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'My dear Emily, whenever you like, I hope you will come here.'</p> - -<p>'And you will come and stay with us in London? Your room will be always -ready; I'll look after that. We shall feel very offended, indeed, if you -ever think of going to an hotel. Of course, you mustn't expect much; we -shall only be able to keep one servant, but we shall try to make you -comfortable, and, when you come, you'll take me to the theatres, to see one -of your own plays.'</p> - -<p>'If my play's being played, certainly. But would it be right for me to -pay you visits in London?'</p> - -<p>'They would be very wicked people indeed who saw anything wrong in it; -you are my cousin. But why do you say such things? You destroy all my -pleasure, and I was so happy just now.'</p> - -<p>'I'm afraid, Emily, your happiness hangs on a very slender thread.'</p> - -<p>She looked at him inquiringly, but feeling that it would be unwise to -attempt an explanation, he said in a different tone—</p> - -<p>'But, Emily, if you love Ashwood so well, why do you go away?'</p> - -<p>'Why do I go away? We have been here now some time.... I can't live here -always.'</p> - -<a name="158.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Why not? Why not let things go on just as they are?'</p> - -<p>'And live here with you, I and Julia?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; why not?'</p> - -<p>'We should bore you; you want to write your plays, you'd get tired of -me.'</p> - -<p>'Your being here would not prevent my writing my plays. I have been -thinking all the while of asking you to remain, but was afraid you would -not care to live here.'</p> - -<p>'Not care to live here! But you'll get tired of us; we might -quarrel.'</p> - -<p>'No; we shall never quarrel. You will be doing me a great favour by -remaining. Just fancy living alone in this great house, not a soul to speak -to all day! I'm sure I should end by going out and hanging myself on one of -those trees.'</p> - -<p>'You wouldn't do that, would you?'</p> - -<p>Hubert laughed. 'You and Mrs. Bentley will be doing me a great favour by -remaining. If you go away I shall be robbed right and left, the gardens -will go to rack and ruin, and when you come down here you won't know the -place, and then, perhaps, we shall quarrel.'</p> - -<p>'I shouldn't like Ashwood to go to rack and ruin—<a name="159.png" -class="pb"></a>and my poor flowers! And I'm sure you'd forget to feed the -swans. If you did that, I could not forgive you.'</p> - -<p>'Well, let these grave considerations decide you to remain.'</p> - -<p>'Are you really serious?'</p> - -<p>'I never was more serious in my life.'</p> - -<p>'Well then, may I run and tell Julia?'</p> - -<p>'Certainly, and I'll—no, I won't. I'll look up the housemaids and tell -them to restore this interesting collection of antiquities to their -original dust.'</p> - -<a name="160.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XII</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">He</span> was, perhaps, a little too conscious -of his happiness; and he feared to do anything that would endanger the -pleasure of his present life. It seemed to him like a costly thing which -might slip from his hand or be broken; and day by day he appreciated more -and more the delicate comfort of this well-ordered house—its brightness, -its ample rooms, the charm of space within and without, the health of -regular and wholesome meals, the presence of these two women, whose first -desire was to minister to his least wish or caprice. These, the first -spoilings he had received, combined to render him singularly happy. -Bohemianism, he often thought, had been forced upon him—it was not natural -to him, and though spiritual belief was dead, he experienced in church a -resurrection of influences which misfortune had hypnotised, but which were -stirring again into life. He was conscious again of this revival of his -early life in the evenings when Mrs. Bentley went to the piano; and when -playing a game of chess or <a name="161.png" class="pb"></a> draughts, -remembrances of the old Shropshire rectory came back, sudden, distinct, and -sweet. In these days the disease of fame and artistic achievement only sang -monotonously, plaintively, like the wind in the valleys where the wind -never wholly rests.</p> - -<p>Sometimes, when moved by the novel he was reading, he would discuss its -merits and demerits with the two women who sat by him in the quiet of the -dim drawing-room, their work on their knees, thinking of him. In the -excitement of criticism his thoughts wandered to his own work, and the -women's eyes filled with reveries, and their hands folded languidly over -their knees. He spoke without emphasis, his words seeming to drop from the -thick obsession of his dream. At ten the ladies gathered up their work, -bade him good-night; and nightly these good-nights grew tenderer, and -nightly they went up-stairs more deeply penetrated with a sense of their -happiness. But at heart he was a man's man. He hardly perceived life from a -woman's point of view; and in the long evenings which he spent with these -women he sometimes had to force himself to appear interested in their -conversation. He was as far removed from one as from the other. Emily's -wilfulness puzzled him, and he did not seem to have anything further to -talk about to Mrs. Bentley.</p> - -<a name="162.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>He missed the bachelor evenings of former days—the whisky and water, -the pipes, and the literary discussion; and as the days went by he began to -think of London; his thoughts turned affectionately towards the friends he -had not seen for so long, and at the end of July he announced his intention -of running up to town for a few days. So one morning breakfast was hurried -through; Emily was sure there was plenty of time; Hubert looked at the -clock and said he must be off; Julia ran after him with parcels which he -had forgotten; farewell signs were waved; the dog-cart passed out of sight, -and, after lingering a moment, the women returned to the drawing-room -thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>'I wonder if he'll catch the train,' said Emily, without taking her face -from the window.</p> - -<p>'I hope so; it will be very tiresome for him if he has to come back. -There isn't another train before three o'clock.'</p> - -<p>'If he missed this train he wouldn't go until to-morrow morning.... I -wonder how long he'll stay away. Supposing something happened, and he never -came back!' Emily turned round and looked at Julia in dreamy -wonderment.</p> - -<p>'Not come back at all? What nonsense you are <a name="163.png" -class="pb"></a> talking, Emily! He won't be away more than a fortnight or -three weeks.'</p> - -<p>'Three weeks! that seems a very long while. How shall we get through our -evenings?'</p> - -<p>Emily had again turned towards the window. Julia did not trouble to -reply. She smiled a little, as she paused on the threshold, for she -remembered that no more than a few weeks ago Emily had addressed to her -passionate speeches declaring her to be her only friend, and that they -would like to live together, content in each other's companionship, always -ignoring the rest of the world. Although she had not mistaken these -speeches for anything more than the nervous passion of a moment, the -suddenness of the recantation surprised her a little. Three or four days -after, the girl was in a different mood, and when they came into the -drawing-room after dinner she threw her arms about Julia's neck, saying, -'Isn't this like old times? Here we are, living all alone together, and I'm -not boring myself a bit. I never shall have another friend like you, -Julia.'</p> - -<p>'But you'll be very glad when Hubert comes back.'</p> - -<p>'There's no harm in that, is there? I should be very ungrateful if I -wasn't. Think how good he has been to us.... I'm afraid you don't like him, -Julia.'</p> - -<a name="164.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Oh, yes, I do, Emily.'</p> - -<p>'Not so much as I do.' And raising herself—she was sitting on Julia's -knees—Emily looked at Julia.</p> - -<p>'Perhaps not,' Julia replied, smiling; 'but then I never hated him as -much as you did.'</p> - -<p>A cloud came over Emily's face. 'I did hate him, didn't I? You remember -that first evening? You remember when you came up-stairs and found me -trembling in the passage—I was afraid to go to bed. ... I begged you to -allow me to sleep with you. You remember how we listened for his footstep -in the passage, as he went up to bed, and how I clung to you? Then the -dreams of that night. I never told you what my dreams were, but you -remember how I woke up with a cry, and you asked me what was the -matter?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I remember.'</p> - -<p>'I dreamt I was with him in a garden, and was trying to get away; but he -held me by a single hair, and the hair would not break. How absurd dreams -are! And the garden was full of flowers, but every time I tried to gather -them, he pulled me back by that single hair. I don't remember any more, -only something about running wildly away from him, and losing myself in a -dark forest, and there the ground <a name="165.png" class="pb"></a> was -soft like a bog, and it seemed as if I were going to be swallowed up every -moment. It was a terrible sensation. All of a sudden I woke with a cry. The -room was grey with dawn, and you said: "Emily dear, what have you been -dreaming, to cry out like that?" I was too tired and frightened to tell you -much about my dream, and next morning I had forgotten it. I did not -remember it for a long time after, but all the same some of it came true. -Don't you remember how I met Hubert next morning on the lawn? We went into -the garden and spent the best part of the morning walking about the -lake.... I don't know if I told you—I ran away when I heard him coming, -and should have got away had it not been for this tiresome dog. He called -after me, using my Christian name. I was so angry I think I hated him then -more than ever. We walked a little way, and the next thing I remember was -thinking how nice he was. I don't know how it all happened. Now I think of -it, it seems like magic. It was the day that my old donkey ran away with -the mowing machine and broke the flower-vase, the dear old thing; we had a -long talk about "Jack." And then I took Hubert into the garden and showed -him the flowers. I don't think he cares much about flowers; he pretended, -<a name="166.png" class="pb"></a> but I could see it was only to please me. -Then I knew that he liked me, for when I told him I was going to feed the -swans, he said he loved swans and begged to be allowed to come too. I don't -think a man would say that if he didn't like you, do you?'</p> - -<p>Emily's mind seemed to contain nothing but memories of Hubert. What he -had said on this occasion, how he had looked at her on another. The -conversation paused and Emily sunned herself in the enchantment of -recollection, until at last breaking forth again, she said—</p> - -<p>'Have you noticed how Ethel Eastwick goes after him? And the odd part of -it is, that she can't see that he dislikes her. He thinks nothing of her -singing; he remained talking to me in the conservatory the whole time. I -asked him to come into the drawing-room, but he pretended to misunderstand -me, and asked me if I felt a draught. He said, "Let me get you a shawl." I -said, "I assure you, Hubert, I don't feel any draught." But he would not -believe me, and said he could not allow me to sit there without something -on my shoulders. I begged of him not to move, for I knew that Ethel would -never forgive me if I interrupted her singing; but he said <a -name="167.png" class="pb"></a> he could get me a wrap without interrupting -any one. He opened the conservatory door, ran across the lawn round to the -front door, and came back with—what do you think? With two wraps instead -of one; one was mine, and the other belonged to—I don't know who it -belonged to. So I said, "Oh, what ever shall we do? I cannot let you go -back again. If any one was to come in and find me alone, what ever would -they think!" Hubert said, "Will you come with me? A walk in the garden will -be pleasanter than sitting in the conservatory." I didn't like going at -first, but I thought there couldn't be much harm.'</p> - -<p>It seemed to Emily very terrible and very wonderful, and she experienced -throughout her numbed sense a strange, thrilling pain, akin to joy, and she -sat, her little fragile form lost in the arm-chair, her great eyes fixed in -ecstasy, seeing still the dark garden with the great star risen like a -phantom above the trees. That evening had been to her a wonder and an -enchantment, and her pausing thoughts dwelt on the moment when the distant -sound of a bell reached their ears, and the bell came nearer, clanging -fiercely in the sonorous garden. Then they saw a light—some one had come -for them with a lantern—a joke, a suitable pleasantry, and amid joyous -laughter, watching the setting moon, <a name="168.png" class="pb"></a> they -had gone back to the tiled house, where dancers still passed the -white-curtained windows. Hubert had sat by her at supper, serving her with -meat and drink. In the sway of memory she trembled and started, looking in -the great arm-chair like a little bird that the moon keeps awake in its -soft nest. She no longer wished to tell Julia of that night in the garden; -her sensation of it lay far beyond words; it was her secret, and it shone -through her dreamy youth even as the star had shone through the heavens -that night. Suddenly she said—</p> - -<p>'I wonder what Hubert is doing in London? I wonder where he is now?'</p> - -<p>'Now? It is just nine. I suppose he's in some theatre.'</p> - -<p>'I suppose he goes a great deal to the theatre. I wonder who he goes -with. He has lots of friends in London—actresses, I suppose; he knows them -who play in his plays. He dines at his club——'</p> - -<p>'Or at a restaurant.'</p> - -<p>'I wonder what a restaurant is like; ladies dine at restaurants, don't -they?'</p> - -<p>As Julia was about to make reply, the servant brought her a letter. She -opened the envelope, and took out a long, closely-written letter; she -turned it <a name="169.png" class="pb"></a> over to see the signature, and -then looking toward Emily, she said, with a pleasant smile—</p> - -<p>'Now I shall be able to answer your questions better; this letter is -from Mr. Price.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, what does he say? Read it.'</p> - -<p>'Wait a moment, let me glance through it first; it is very difficult to -read.' A few moments after, Julia said, 'There's not much that would -interest you in the letter, Emily; it is all about his play. He says he -would have written before if he had not been so busy looking out for a -theatre, and engaging actors and actresses. He hopes to start rehearsing -next week.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"I say I hope, because there are still some parts of the play which do -not satisfy me, particularly the third act. I intend to work steadily on -the play till, next Thursday, five or six hours every day; I am in perfect -health and spirits, and ought to be able to get the thing right. Should I -fail to satisfy myself, or should any further faults appear when we begin -to rehearse the piece, I shall dismiss my people, pack up my traps, and -return to Ashwood. There I shall have quiet; here, people are continually -knocking at my door, and I cannot deny my friends the pleasure of seeing -me, if that is a pleasure. But at Ashwood, as I say, I shall be sure of -quiet, and can easily finish the play this autumn, and February is a better -time than September to produce a play."'</p> </blockquote> - -<a name="170.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Then he goes on,' said Julia, 'to explain the alterations he -contemplates making. There's no use reading you all that.'</p> - -<p>'I suppose you think I should not understand.'</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily, if you want to read the letter, there it is.'</p> - -<p>'I don't want to see your letter.'</p> - -<p>'What do you mean, Emily?'</p> - -<p>'Nothing, only I think it rather strange that he didn't write to -me.'</p> - -<p>Some days after, Emily took up the book that Julia had laid down. -'"Shakespeare's Plays." I suppose you are reading them so that you'll be -able to talk to him better.'</p> - -<p>'I never thought of such a thing, Emily.' At the end of a long silence -Emily said—</p> - -<p>'Do you think clever men like clever women?'</p> - -<p>'I don't know. Some say they do, some say they don't. I believe that -really clever men, men of genius, don't.'</p> - -<p>'I wonder if Hubert is a man of genius. What do you think?'</p> - -<p>'I really am not capable of expressing an opinion on the matter.'</p> - -<p>Another week passed away, and Emily began to <a name="171.png" -class="pb"></a> assume an air of languor and timid yearning. One day she -said—</p> - -<p>'I wonder he doesn't write. He hasn't answered my letter yet. Has he -answered yours?'</p> - -<p>'He has not written to me again. He hasn't time for letter-writing. He -is working night and day at his play.'</p> - -<p>'I suppose he'd never think of coming down by the morning train. He'd be -sure to come by the five o'clock.'</p> - -<p>'He won't come without writing. He'd be sure to write for the -dog-cart.'</p> - -<p>'I suppose so. There's no use in looking out for him.'</p> - -<p>But, notwithstanding her certitude on the point, Emily could not help -choosing five o'clock as the time for a walk, and Julia noticed that the -girl's feet seemed to turn instinctively towards the lodge. Often she would -leave the flowers she was tending on the terrace, and stand looking through -the dim, sun-smitten landscape toward the red-brown spot, which was -Southwater, in the middle of the long plain.</p> - -<a name="172.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XIII</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">Hubert</span> felt called upon to entertain his -friends, and one evening they all sat dining at Hurlingham in the long -room. The conversation, as usual, had been about books and pictures.</p> - -<p>It was the moment when strings of lanterns were hoisted from tree to -tree. In front of a large space of sky the coloured globes were crude and -trivial; but in the shadows of the trees by the river, where the mist rose -into the branches, they had begun to awaken the first impression of -melancholy and the sadness of <i>fête</i>. It was the moment when the -great trees hung heavy and motionless, strangely green and solemn beneath a -slate-coloured sky; and the plaintive waltz cried on Hungarian -fiddle-strings, till it seemed the soul of this feminine evening. The -fashionable crowd had moved out upon the lawn; the white dresses were -phantom blue, and the men's coats faded into obscure masses, darkening the -gathering shadows. It was the moment when voices soften, and every heart, -overpowered with <a name="173.png" class="pb"></a> yearning, is impelled to -tell of grief and disillusion; and every moment the wail of the fiddles -grew more unbearable, tearing the heart to its very depths.</p> - -<p>Author and actor-manager walked up the lawn puffing at their cigars. The -others sat watching, knowing that the opportunity had come for criticism of -their friend.</p> - -<p>'He does not change much,' said Harding. 'Circumstances haven't affected -him. A year ago he lived in a garret re-writing his play <i>Divorce</i>. He -now rewrites <i>Divorce</i> in a handsome house in Sussex.'</p> - -<p>'I thought he had finished his play,' said Thompson. 'I heard that he -was going to take a theatre and produce it himself.'</p> - -<p>'But did you not hear him say at dinner that he was re-writing as he -rehearsed? I met one of the actors yesterday. He doesn't know what to make -of it. He gets a new part every week to learn.'</p> - -<p>'Do you think he'll ever produce it?'</p> - -<p>'I doubt it. At the last moment he'll find that the third act doesn't -satisfy him, and will postpone the production till the spring.'</p> - -<p>'What do you think of his work?'</p> - -<p>'Very intelligent, but a little insipid—like himself. Look at him. -<i>Il est bien l'homme de ses ouvres</i>. There is something dry about him, -and his writings are <a name="174.png" class="pb"></a> like himself—hard, -dry and wanting in personal passion.'</p> - -<p>'Yet he talks charmingly, with vivacity and intelligence, and he is so -full of appreciation of Shakespeare, Goethe, and such genuine love for -antiquity.'</p> - -<p>'I've heard him talk Shakespeare, Goethe, and Ibsen,' said Harding, 'but -I never heard him say anything new, anything personal. It seems to me that -you mistake quotation for perception. He assimilates, but he originates -nothing. He has read a great deal; he is covered with literature like a -rock with moss and lichen. He's appreciative, I will say that for him. He -would make a capital editor, or a tutor, or a don, an Oxford don. He would -be perfectly happy as a don; he could read up the German critics and -expound Sophocles. He would be perfectly happy as a don. As it is, he is -perfectly miserable.'</p> - -<p>'There was a fellow who had a studio over mine,' said Thompson. 'He had -been in the army and used to paint a bit. The academy by chance hung a -portrait, so he left the army and turned portrait-painter. One day he saw a -picture by Velasquez, and he understood how horrid were the red things he -used to send to the academy. He used to come down to see me; he used to -say, "I wish I had never seen a picture, by <a name="175.png" -class="pb"></a> Gad, it is driving me out of my mind." Poor chap, I wanted -him to go back to the army. I said, Why paint? no one forces you to; it -makes you miserable; don't do so any more. When you have anything to say, -art is a joy; when you haven't, it is a curse to yourself and to -others.'</p> - -<p>Philipps, the editor of <i>The Cosmopolitan</i>, turned towards Harding, -and he said—</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'I have never heard of him being in love,' said Harding. 'I should say -that he had been entirely uninfluenced by women.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<a name="176.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'What an excellent character he would make in a novel! A drama of -sterility,' said Phillips.</p> - -<p>'Or the dramas which they bring about,' said Harding.</p> - -<p>'Yes, or the dramas they bring about. But what drama can Price bring -about—he shuts himself up in a <a name="177.png" class="pb"></a> room and -tries to write a play,' said Phillips. 'I don't see how he can dramatise -any life but his own.'</p> - -<p>'All deviations from the normal tend to bring about drama,' said -Harding.</p> - -<p>'Then, why don't you do a Hubert Price in a book? It would be most -interesting. Do you think you ever will?'</p> - -<p>'I don't think so.'</p> - -<p>'Why not? Because he is a friend of yours, and you would not -like——'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'What kind of man?' said Phillips, and the five or six writers and -painters leaned forward to listen to Harding.</p> - -<p>'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 <a -name="178.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'A sort of constipated Browning,' said Phillips.</p> - -<p>'Exactly,' said Harding.</p> - -<p>'And would you have him married?' asked John Norton.</p> - -<p>'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 <a name="179.png" class="pb"></a> chamber. Something of the -poet's sterility would have descended upon them.'</p> - -<p>'That is how you imagine <i>un génie raté</i>,' said Phillips. 'Your -conception is clear enough; why don't you write the book?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'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; <a -name="180.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<a name="181.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XIV</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">One</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>The Gipsy</i>. If it did -not come right then, <a name="182.png" class="pb"></a> 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 <i>The Gipsy</i> until <a name="183.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <a name="184.png" class="pb"></a> -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.</p> - -<p>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 <a name="185.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>But without warning his dreams were broken by a sudden thought, and he -said—</p> - -<p>'Another time, I think it will be better, my dear Emily, that Mrs. -Bentley should take you out.'</p> - -<p>'Why should you not take me out?... I suppose you don't care to—I bore -you.'</p> - -<p>'No; on the contrary, I enjoy it—I like to see you amused; but I think -you should have a proper chaperon.'</p> - -<p>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 <a name="186.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily, I could not think of such a thing this morning. I am -very busy—indeed I am.'</p> - -<p>'What are you doing? Nothing very important, I can see. You are only -writing your play. You might come with me.'</p> - -<p>'My play is as important to me as a visit to the Eastwicks is to you,' -he answered, smiling.</p> - -<a name="187.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'I have promised Edith.... I really do wish you would come.'</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily, it is quite impossible: do let me get on with my -work!'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'You don't care to talk to me. I am not clever enough for you.'</p> - -<p>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. <a name="188.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>'Oh, we shall be back in plenty of time; I'll leave you at the rectory -on our way home.'</p> - -<p>'Thank you, Mr. Price; but I do not think I can go.'</p> - -<p>'And why, may I ask?'</p> - -<p>'Well, perhaps Emily would like to go.'</p> - -<p>'Emily has a cold, and it would be folly of her to venture a long drive -on a cold morning.'</p> - -<p>'My cold is quite well.'</p> - -<p>'You were complaining before dinner how bad it was.'</p> - -<p>'If you don't want to take me, say so.' Tears were now streaming down -her cheeks.</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily, I am only too pleased to have you with me; I was only -thinking of your cold.'</p> - -<p>'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. <a name="189.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>'I hope the drive won't tire you; you know the meet is at least five -miles from here.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'I hope you are well wrapped up about the knees,' said Mrs. Bentley.</p> - -<p>'Oh yes, thank you; Hubert is looking after me.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'I hope Julia was not disappointed. I know she wanted to come; -but——'</p> - -<p>'But what?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>Hubert did not answer, and Emily looked at him <a name="190.png" -class="pb"></a> inquiringly. At last she said, 'I suppose you don't think -so?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily, how can you say such things? I never heard—— She is -always ready to sacrifice herself for you.'</p> - -<p>'You think so. She has a knack of pretending to be more unselfish than -another; but she is in reality intensely selfish.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<a name="191.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>Hubert was somewhat shocked. The conversation paused.</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Do you like tall women?'</p> - -<p>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 <a name="192.png" class="pb"></a> straining hounds, one within a dozen -yards of the poor little beast, now running in a circle, uttering the most -plaintive and pitiful cries.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <a name="193.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<a name="194.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XV</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">One</span> 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.</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'What a lot of trouble you do take! Does every one who writes plays take -so much trouble?'</p> - -<p>'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 <a -name="195.png" class="pb"></a> 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——'</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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 <a -name="196.png" class="pb"></a> book, and then for some work which she said -had dropped out of her basket.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'If you have written out <i>The Gipsy</i> 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.'</p> - -<p>'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 <i>Divorce</i> 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.'</p> - -<p>'I'm sorry,' said Mrs. Bentley, 'that I am not Mr. Harding. It must be -very gratifying to one's feelings <a name="197.png" class="pb"></a> to be -able to help to solve a literary difficulty, particularly if one cannot -write oneself.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'Then come up to my study. We shall have just time to get through the -first act before dinner.'</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bentley hesitated; and, noticing her hesitation, Hubert looked -surprised. At that moment Emily said—</p> - -<p>'May I not come too?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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!'</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily!'</p> - -<p>'Don't touch me! Go to her; shut yourself up together. Don't think of -me. I can bear it no <a name="198.png" class="pb"></a> 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—</p> - -<p>'That poor child will cry herself into her grave. Have you noticed how -poorly she is looking?'</p> - -<p>'Not noticed! But you do not know half of it. It has been going on now a -long time. You don't know half!'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'It is worse than you think. You have not noticed that we hardly speak -now?'</p> - -<p>'You—who were such friends—surely not!'</p> - -<p>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 <a name="199.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Have you any proposal to make regarding her? <a name="200.png" -class="pb"></a> I need hardly say that I'm ready to carry out any idea of -yours.'</p> - -<p>'You know what the cause of it is, I suppose?'</p> - -<p>'I do not know; I am not certain. I daresay I'm mistaken.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'But what do you propose?'</p> - -<a name="201.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Unless you intend to marry her—forgive me for speaking so plain—there -is only one thing to do. I must leave.'</p> - -<p>'No, no; you must not leave! She could not live alone with me. But does -she want you to leave?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'It is very strange.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, it is very strange; but, opposed though she be to all thoughts of -it, I must leave.'</p> - -<p>'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. <a name="202.png" class="pb"></a> 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?'</p> - -<p>'I promise.'</p> - -<p>'Thank you. I am deeply obliged to you.'</p> - -<p>At the end of a long silence, Hubert said, 'Will you not come up-stairs, -and let me read you the first act?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<a name="203.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XVI</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">The</span> 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 <a -name="204.png" class="pb"></a> in Dresden china. Hubert had bought these -works of art on the occasion of his last visit to London, about two months -ago.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <a name="205.png" class="pb"></a> -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.</p> - -<p>Any distraction from the haunting pain, now become chronic, is welcome, -and he answers with a glad 'Come in!' the knock at the door.</p> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<p>Hubert laughed. 'I find such details far more agreeable than literature. -I can do nothing with my play.'</p> - -<a name="206.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Aren't you getting on this morning?'</p> - -<p>'No, not very well.'</p> - -<p>'What do you think of turbot?'</p> - -<p>'I think turbot very nice. Emily likes turbot.'</p> - -<p>'Very well, then. I'll order turbot.'</p> - -<p>As Mrs. Bentley was about to withdraw, she said, 'I'm sorry you are not -getting on. What stops you now? That second act?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'I really don't think I can stay. If Emily heard that you had been -reading your play to me——'</p> - -<p>'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 <a name="207.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'You must not go! I really want you. I assure you that your opinion will -be of value.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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!'</p> - -<p>'You do not know how she suffers. Let me go; spare her the pain.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<a name="208.png" class="pb"></a> - -<div class="image"><a href="images/image05.jpeg"><img src="images/image05-thumb.jpeg" -align="left" alt="[drawing]"></a> - -"Sometimes, in an exciting passage, the hands were clasped." </div> - -<br> - -<a name="209.png" class="pb"></a> - -<a name="210.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'Ah,' he said, after two hours' delightful talk, 'how much I'm indebted -to you! At last I see my mistakes; <a name="211.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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. <a name="212.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'I think I shall go up with you. I want to go to London,' said -Emily.</p> - -<p>'It will be very nice if you'll come; but we cannot both stay with the -Eastwicks; they have only one spare room.'</p> - -<p>'I suppose you'd like me to go to an hotel.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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, <a -name="213.png" class="pb"></a> and was preparing to leave the room when -Emily said—</p> - -<p>'The hotel will suit you very well. You'll be free to see Hubert -whenever you like.'</p> - -<p>Hubert looked up quickly, hoping Mrs. Bentley would not answer, but -before he could make a sign she said—</p> - -<p>'What do you mean, Emily? I did not know that Hubert was going to -London.'</p> - -<p>'You hardly expect me to believe that, do you?'</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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 <a name="214.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>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 -<a name="215.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <a name="216.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'No, no, I beg of you!'</p> - -<p>'I must speak to you!' He laid his hand upon her <a name="217.png" -class="pb"></a> arm, and said, 'I beg of you. I have something to say—it -is of great importance. Come in.'</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<p>'Well, what is it?'</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'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—</p> - -<p>'This cannot go on; our lives are being made unbearable. You agree with -me—do you not?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<a name="218.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'You know very well, Julia, that that is impossible.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'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 <a -name="219.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'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 <a name="220.png" class="pb"></a> write my -play. A woman's influence is necessary to every undertaking. The greatest -writers owe their best inspiration to——'</p> - -<p>'Her heart is as closely set upon you as yours is upon your play.'</p> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<p>Julia looked at him one moment doubtingly, inquiringly. Then she -said—</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Or cut out in time.'</p> - -<p>'I must leave.'</p> - -<p>'That will not mend matters.'</p> - -<p>'My departure will, at all events, remove all cause for jealousy; and -when I am gone you may learn to love her.'</p> - -<p>'No; that I swear is impossible!'</p> - -<p>'You very likely think so now; but I'm bound to give her every chance of -winning you.'</p> - -<p>'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 <a name="221.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>'Why should you not marry her?' Julia said, at the end of a long -silence. 'Some people think her quite a pretty girl.'</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<p>'There is nothing for it but my departure, and the sooner the -better.'</p> - -<p>'You are not in earnest? You are surely not in earnest?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, indeed I am.'</p> - -<p>'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 <a name="222.png" class="pb"></a> any liking I may have ever -had for her. You'll have to take her with you.'</p> - -<p>'She would not come with me. I spoke to her once of a trip abroad.'</p> - -<p>'And she refused?'</p> - -<p>'She said she only wanted things to go on just as they are.'</p> - -<a name="223.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XVII</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">In</span> 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.</p> - -<p>'No, thank you; I want nothing; I have no wish to see anything. I like -the dark.'</p> - -<p>'Have you been asleep?'</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'Aren't you coming down to dinner, Emily? Come, <a name="224.png" -class="pb"></a> let me pour out some water for you. When you have bathed -your eyes——'</p> - -<p>'I don't want any dinner.'</p> - -<p>'It will look very strange if you remain in your room the whole evening. -You do not want to vex him, do you?'</p> - -<p>'I suppose he is very angry with me. But I did not mean to vex him. Is -he very angry?'</p> - -<p>'No, he is not angry at all; he is merely distressed. You distress him -dreadfully when——'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'I assure you, Emily, you are mistaken. Mr. Price and I have no secrets -whatever.'</p> - -<p>'Why should you tell me these falsehoods? They make me so -miserable.'</p> - -<p>'Falsehoods, Emily! When did you ever know me to tell a falsehood?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<a name="225.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>Emily did not answer. At last she said, breaking the silence -abruptly—</p> - -<p>'Is he very angry? Has he gone to his study? Do you think he will come -down to dinner?'</p> - -<p>'I suppose he'll come down for dinner.'</p> - -<p>'Will you go and ask him?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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 <a -name="226.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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....'</p> - -<p>'But tell me, Emily, what is it you suspect? What do you accuse me -of?'</p> - -<p>'I accuse you of nothing. Can't you understand that things may go wrong -without it being any one's fault in particular?'</p> - -<p>Julia wondered how Emily could think so wisely. She seemed to have grown -wiser in her grief. But <a name="227.png" class="pb"></a> grief helped her -no further in her instinctive perception of the truth, and she resumed her -puerile attack on her friend.</p> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'I would do anything in the world for you, Emily. I am your best friend, -and yet——'</p> - -<a name="228.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'I have no friend. I don't believe in friends. You think people are your -friends, and then you find they are not.'</p> - -<p>'How can I convince you of the injustice of your suspicions?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'For you, perhaps.'</p> - -<p>'Emily, Emily! ... You should try to understand things better.'</p> - -<p>'I feel them, even if I don't understand.'</p> - -<p>'Admit that you were wrong about the ring. Have I not convinced you that -you were wrong?'</p> - -<p>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?'</p> - -<p>The directness of the question took Julia by surprise, <a name="229.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<p>'Then it is just as I thought!' Emily cried; 'he wants to get rid of -me!'</p> - -<p>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 <a -name="230.png" class="pb"></a> 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—</p> - -<p>'Oh, Emily dear, he never asked me to marry him; he does not love me at -all! Why will you not believe me?'</p> - -<p>'Because I cannot!' she cried passionately. 'I only ask to be left -alone.'</p> - -<p>'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 <a name="231.png" class="pb"></a> 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—</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'No, no! you mustn't leave; I don't want you to <a name="232.png" -class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'I suppose you have told him that I am looking thin and ill.... Men like -tall, big, healthy women like you—don't they?'</p> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<a name="233.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'But is he coming down to dinner? I thought you said he had gone to his -study; sometimes he dines there.'</p> - -<p>'I can tell you nothing about Mr. Price. I don't know whether he'll dine -up-stairs or down.'</p> - -<p>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.'</p> - -<p>'Very well; I shall be down directly.'</p> - -<p>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!'</p> - -<p>'There's nothing to confide....'</p> - -<p>'You mustn't give way like this; you really mustn't. Come down and have -some dinner.'</p> - -<p>'It is no use; I couldn't eat anything.'</p> - -<a name="234.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'No; he will spend the whole evening in his room; we shall not see him -again.'</p> - -<p>'But if I go and ask him to come; if I tell him——'</p> - -<p>'No; do not speak to him about me; he'd only say that I was interfering -with his work.'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Emily had begun to undress; and, tearing off her things, she hardly took -more than five minutes to get into bed.</p> - -<p>'Shall I light a candle?' Julia asked before leaving.</p> - -<p>'No, thank you.'</p> - -<a name="235.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Shall I send you up some soup?'</p> - -<p>'No; I could not touch it.'</p> - -<p>'You are not going to remain in the dark? Let me light a -night-light?'</p> - -<p>'No, thank you; I like the dark.'</p> - -<a name="236.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XVIII</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">Hubert</span> 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—</p> - -<p>'What do you think, Doctor? Is she seriously ill?'</p> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<p>'But what, doctor?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'And supposing it were so, what would be your advice? Change of air and -scene?'</p> - -<p>'Certainly.'</p> - -<p>'Have you spoken to her on the subject?'</p> - -<a name="237.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Yes; but she says she will not leave Ashwood.'</p> - -<p>'We cannot send her away by force. What would you advise us to do?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, she does; but she has been ordered chloral. Any harm in that?'</p> - -<p>'In her case, it is a necessity; but do you think she takes it?'</p> - -<p>'Oh yes, she has been taking choral.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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!'</p> - -<p>'Believe me,' she said, raising her arms in a beautiful feminine -movement, 'I do not wish to make you unhappy.'</p> - -<p>'Then why do you persist? Why do you refuse <a name="238.png" -class="pb"></a> to take the only step that may lead us out of this -difficulty?'</p> - -<p>'How can you ask me? Oh, Hubert, I did not think you could be so cruel! -It would be a shameful action.'</p> - -<p>It was the first time she had used his Christian name, and his face -changed expression.</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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.'</p> - -<p>'Julia, do not say you never will?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<a name="239.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'I'm afraid I'm interrupting you,' she said.</p> - -<p>'No, Emily; pray do not go away. We were only talking about you.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'A little patience, Emily. You will not have me here much longer.'</p> - -<a name="240.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'I suppose that I am so disagreeable that you cannot live with me. Why -should you go away?'</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily, you must not excite yourself. The doctor——'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'We do not get on together as we used to—that is all, Emily. I can -please you no longer.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Emily, dear, everything shall be as you like it.'</p> - -<p>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 <a name="241.png" class="pb"></a> 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—</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'He said that you ought to have a change—that you should go south -somewhere.'</p> - -<p>'And you agree with him that I ought to go away?'</p> - -<p>'Is he not the best judge?—the doctor's orders!'</p> - -<p>'Then you, too, have learnt to hate me. You, too, want to send me -away?'</p> - -<p>'My dear Emily, I only want to do as you like. You asked me what the -doctor said, and I told you.'</p> - -<p>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 <a name="242.png" class="pb"></a> 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—</p> - -<p>'But tell me, Emily, how are you feeling? You are, after all, the best -judge.'</p> - -<p>'I feel rather weak. I should get strong enough if——'</p> - -<p>She paused, as if waiting for Hubert to ask her to finish the sentence. -But he hurriedly turned the conversation.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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 <a name="243.png" class="pb"></a> only selfishness. No one has -ever loved me. I feel so utterly alone in this world—that is why I am -unhappy.'</p> - -<p>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—-</p> - -<p>'But even if I wished to go abroad, with whom could I go?'</p> - -<p>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——'</p> - -<a name="244.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'No, no, I am not mistaken! She hates me, and I cannot bear her. It is -she who is making me ill.'</p> - -<p>'Hate you! Why should she hate you?'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'I would give anything to see you friends again.'</p> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<p>'Emily dear, these are but idle fancies. You are mistaken.'</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<a name="245.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Julia and I can never be friends again—that is impossible.'</p> - -<p>'But what has she done?' Hubert asked incautiously, regretting his words -as soon as he had uttered them.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'I am sure she never said any such thing. You are entirely mistaken. -Mrs. Bentley is incapable of such wickedness.'</p> - -<p>'A woman, when she is jealous, will say anything. If she did not say it, -can you tell me how it got about?'</p> - -<p>'I don't believe any one ever said such a thing.'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'If you think this is so, had she not better leave?'</p> - -<p>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. <a name="246.png" class="pb"></a> 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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Is that really true? I thought no one cared for me. You must care for -me a little to speak like that.'</p> - -<p>'Of course I care for you, Emily.'</p> - -<p>'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?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Is that all? Then why do people say you are going to marry her?'</p> - -<p>'But nobody ever said so.'</p> - -<p>'Oh yes, they have. Is it true?'</p> - -<p>'No, Emily; it is not true.'</p> - -<a name="247.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Are you quite sure?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, quite sure.'</p> - -<p>'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——'</p> - -<p>'I what?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>Hubert shook his head.</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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.'</p> - -<p>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 <a -name="248.png" class="pb"></a> 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—</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'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 <a -name="249.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>'Julia!'</p> - -<p>'You have left Emily. How did you leave her?'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Really! What induced such a change in her? Did you——'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Did she ask you?'</p> - -<p>'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!'</p> - -<p>'Quite true, and we have been reproaching ourselves for our -selfishness.'</p> - -<p>'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!'</p> - -<a name="250.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'She is very young, and the young are naturally egotistic.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>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—</p> - -<p>'I think we had better turn back.'</p> - -<p>The suggestion filled Hubert's heart with rushing pain, and he -answered—</p> - -<p>'Why should we return? I cannot go back to that girl. Oh, the miserable -life we are leading!'</p> - -<p>'What can we do? We must go back; we cannot <a name="251.png" -class="pb"></a> live in a tent by the wayside. We have no tent to set -up.'</p> - -<p>'Come to London, and be my wife.'</p> - -<p>'No,' she said; 'that is impossible. Let us not speak of it.'</p> - -<p>Hubert did not answer; and, turning their faces homeward, they walked -some way in silence. Suddenly Hubert said—</p> - -<p>'No; it is impossible. I cannot return. There is no use. I'm at the end -of my tether. I cannot.'</p> - -<p>She looked at him in alarm.</p> - -<p>'Hubert,' she said, 'this is folly! I cannot return without you.'</p> - -<p>'You ruin my life; you refuse me the only happiness. I'm more wretched -than I can tell you!'</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'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!'</p> - -<a name="252.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'Perhaps you are right.'</p> - -<p>An empty fly, returning to the town, passed them. The fly-man raised his -whip.</p> - -<p>'Take you to the railway station in ten minutes!'</p> - -<p>Hubert spoke quietly; nevertheless there was a strange nervousness in -his eyes when he said—</p> - -<p>'Fate comes to help me; she offers us the means of escape. You will not -refuse, Julia?'</p> - -<p>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 <a -name="253.png" class="pb"></a> familiar appears strange and grotesque. -Then, gathering all her resolution, she said—</p> - -<p>'No, no; it is impossible! Come back, come back.'</p> - -<p>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——'</p> - -<p>'No, no, Hubert, I cannot; let us return home.'</p> - -<p>'I go back to Ashwood! If I did, I should commit suicide.'</p> - -<p>'Don't speak like that.... Where will you go?'</p> - -<p>'I shall travel.... I shall visit Italy and Greece.... I shall live -abroad.'</p> - -<p>'You are not serious?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I am, Julia. That cab may not take both, but it certainly will -take one of us away from Ashwood, and for ever.'</p> - -<p>'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 <a -name="254.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>He had stopped in the middle of the road, and they walked slowly past, -through a great puddle, which drenched their feet.</p> - -<p>'Get in, Julia. Shall I open the door?'</p> - -<p>'No, no; think of Emily. I cannot, Hubert,—I cannot; it would kill -her.'</p> - -<p>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 <a -name="255.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>'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.</p> - -<p>'Say you will come with me!' Hubert whispered; and all the while the -rain came down heavier.</p> - -<p>'No, no, Hubert.... I cannot; I promised Emily that I never would. I am -going back.'</p> - -<p>'Then we must say good-bye. I will not go back.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<p>'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.'</p> - -<a name="256.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'Horrible weather, sir; shan't be long a-takin' you to Southwater. What -part of the town be yer going to—the railway station?'</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>'Drive me to the station as fast as you can. Catch the half-past five to -London, and I'll give you five shillings.'</p> - -<a name="257.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>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—</p> - -<p>'Dearest Julia, you are what I love best in the world.'</p> - -<p>The words thrilled her a little, but all the while she saw Emily's eyes -and heard her voice.</p> - -<p>Hubert, however, was full of happiness—the sweet happiness of the -quiet, docile creature that has at last obtained what it loves.</p> - -<a name="258.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XIX</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">Emily</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <a name="259.png" class="pb"></a> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <a name="260.png" class="pb"></a> hoped he -would not care to eat it; he would not if he knew she was going to leave -him.</p> - -<p>In the drawing-room he insisted on being nursed; and alone, amid the -faded furniture, watched over by the old portraits, her pale face fixed and -her pale hands clasping her beloved dog, she sat thinking, brooding over -the unhappiness, the incurable unhappiness, of her little life. She was -absorbed in self, and did not rail against Hubert, or even Julia. Their -personalities had somehow dropped out of her mind, and merely represented -forces against which she found herself unable any longer to contend. Nor -was she surprised at what had happened. There had always been in her some -prescience of her fate. She and unhappiness had always seemed so -inseparable, that she had never found it difficult to believe that this -last misfortune would befall her. She had thought it over, and had decided -that it would be unendurable to live any longer, and had borne many a -terrible insomnia so that she might collect sufficient chloral to take her -out of her misery; and now, as she sat thinking, she remembered that she -had never, never been happy. Oh! the miserable evenings she used to spend, -when a child, between her father and mother, who could not agree—why, she -never understood. But she used <a name="261.png" class="pb"></a> to have to -listen to her mother addressing insulting speeches to her father in a calm, -even voice that nothing could alter; and, though both were dead and years -divided her from that time, the memory survived, and she could see it all -again—that room, the very paper on the wall, and her father being -gradually worked up into a frenzy.</p> - -<p>When she was left an orphan, Mr. Burnett had adopted her, and she -remembered the joy of coming to Ashwood. She had thought to find happiness -there; but there, as at home, fate had gone against her, and she was hardly -eighteen when Mr. Burnett had asked her to marry him. She had loved that -old man, but he had not loved her; for when she had refused to marry him he -had broken all his promises and left her penniless, careless of what might -become of her. Then she had given her whole heart to Julia, and Julia, too, -had deceived her. And had she not loved Hubert?—no one would ever know how -much; she did not know herself,—and had he not lied to her? Oh, it was -very cruel to deceive a poor little girl in this heartless way! There was -no heart in the world, that was it—and she was all heart; and her heart -had been trampled on ever since she could remember. And when they came back -they would revenge themselves <a name="262.png" class="pb"></a> upon -her—insult her with their happiness; perhaps insist on sending her -away.</p> - -<p>Dandy drowsed on her lap. The servant brought in the tea, and when he -returned to the kitchen he said he had never seen any one look so -ghost-like as Miss Emily. The clock ticked loudly in the silence of the old -room, the hands moving slowly towards ten. She waited for the hour to -strike; it was then that she usually went to bed. Her thoughts moved as in -a nightmare; and paramount in this chaotic mass of sensation was an acute -sense of the deception that had been practised on her; with the -consciousness, now firm and unalterable, that it had become impossible for -her to live. When the clock struck she got up from her chair, and the -movement seemed to react on her brain; her thoughts unclouded, and she went -up-stairs thinking clearly of her love of this old house. The old gentleman -in the red coat, his hand on his sword, looked on her benignly; and the -lady playing the spinet smiled as sweetly as was her wont. Emily held up -the candle to the picture of the windmill. She had always loved that -picture, and the sad thought came that she should never see it again. -Dandy, who had galloped up-stairs, stood looking through the banisters, -wagging his tail.</p> - -<a name="263.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>The moment she got into her room she wrote the following note: 'I have -taken an overdose of chloral. My life was too miserable to be borne any -longer. I forgive those who have caused my unhappiness, and I hope they -will forgive me any unhappiness I have caused them.' They were nothing to -her now; they were beyond her hate, and the only pang she felt was parting -with her beloved Dandy. There he stood looking at her, standing on the edge -of the bed, waiting for her to cover him up and put him to sleep in his own -corner. 'Yes, Dandy, in a moment, dear—have patience.' She looked round -the little room, and, remembering all that she had suffered there, thought -that the walls must be saturated with grief, like a sponge.</p> - -<p>It was a common thing at that time for her to stand before the glass and -address such words as these to herself: 'My poor girl, how I pity you, how -I pity you!' And now, looking at herself very sadly, she said, 'My poor -girl, I shall never pity you any more!' Having hung up her dress, she -fetched a chair and took various doses of chloral out of the hollow top of -her wardrobe, where she had hidden things all her life—sweets, novels, -fireworks. They more than half-filled the tumbler; and, looking at the <a -name="264.png" class="pb"></a> sticky, white liquid, she thought with -repugnance of drinking so much of it. But, wanting to make quite sure of -death, she resolved to take it all, and she undressed quickly. She was very -cold when she got into bed. Then a thought struck her, and she got out of -bed to add a postscript to her letter. 'I have only one request to make. I -hope Dandy will always be taken care of.' Surprised that she had not -wrapped him up and told him he was to go to sleep, the dog stood on the -edge of the bed, watching her so earnestly that she wondered if he knew -what she was going to do. 'No, you don't know, dear—do you? If you did, -you wouldn't let me do it; you'd bark the house down, I know you would, my -own darling.' Clasping him to her breast, she smothered him with kisses, -then put him away in his corner, covering him over for the night.</p> - -<p>She felt neither grief nor fear. Through much suffering, thought and -sensation were, to a great extent, dead in her; and, in a sort of emotive -numbness, she laid her candlestick in its usual place on the chair by her -bedside; and, sitting up in bed, her night-dress carefully buttoned, -holding the tumbler half-filled with chloral, she tried to take a -dispassionate survey of her life. She thought of what she had <a -name="265.png" class="pb"></a> endured, and what she would have to endure -if she did not take it. Then she felt she must go, and without hesitation -drank off the chloral. She placed the tumbler by the candlestick, and lay -down, remembering vaguely that a long time ago she had decided that suicide -was not wrong in itself. The last thing she remembered was the clock -striking eleven.</p> - -<p>For half an hour she slept like stone. Then her eyes opened, and they -told of sickness now in motion within her. And, strangely enough, through -the overpowering nausea rising from her stomach to her brain, the thought -that she was not going to die appeared perfectly clear, and with it a sense -of disappointment; she would have to begin it all over again. It was with -great difficulty that she struck a match and lighted a candle. It seemed -impossible to get up. At last she managed to slip her legs out of bed, and -found she could stand, and through the various assaults of retching she -thought of the letter: it must be destroyed; and, leaning in the corner -against the wall and the wardrobe, she tried to recover herself. A dull, -deep sleep was pressing on her brain, and she thought she would never be -able to cross the room to where the letter was. Dandy looked out of his -rug; she caught sight of his bright eyes.</p> - -<a name="266.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>On cold and shaky feet she attempted to make her way towards the letter; -but the room heaved up at her, and, fearing she should fall, and knowing if -she did that she would not be able to regain her feet, she clung to the -toilette-table. She must destroy that letter: if it were found, they would -watch her; and, however impossible her life might become, she would not be -able to escape from it. This consideration gave her strength for a final -effort. She tore the letter into very small pieces, and then, clinging to a -chair, strove to grasp the rail of the bed; but the bed rolled worse than -any ship. Making a supreme effort, she got in; and then, neither dreams nor -waking thoughts, but oblivion complete. Hours and hours passed, and when -she opened her eyes her maid stood over the bed, looking at her.</p> - -<p>'Oh, miss, you looked so tired and ill that I didn't wake you. You do -seem poorly, miss. It is nearly two o'clock. Should you like to sleep a -little longer, or shall I bring you up some breakfast?'</p> - -<p>'No, no, no, thank you. I couldn't touch anything. I'm feeling wretched; -but I'll get up.'</p> - -<p>The maid tried to dissuade her; but Emily got out of bed, and allowed -herself to be dressed. She was very weak—so weak that she could hardly -stand up <a name="267.png" class="pb"></a> at the washstand; and the maid -had to sponge her face and neck. But when she had drunk a cup of tea and -eaten a little piece of toast, she said she felt better, and was able to -walk into the drawing-room. She thought no more of death, nor of her -troubles; thought drowned in her; and in a passive, torpid state she sat -looking into the fire till dinner-time, hardly caring to bestow a casual -caress on Dandy, who seemed conscious of his mistress's neglect, for, in -his sly, coaxing way, he sometimes came and rubbed himself against her -feet. She went into the dining-room, and the servant was glad to see that -she finished her soup, and, though she hardly tasted it, she finished a -wing of a chicken, and also the glass of wine which the man pressed upon -her. Half an hour after, when he brought out the tea, he found her sitting -on her habitual chair nursing her dog, and staring into the fire so -drearily that her look frightened him, and he hesitated before he gave her -the letter which had just come up from the town; but it was marked -'Immediate.'</p> - -<p>When he left the room she opened it. It was from Mrs. Bentley:—</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>'<span class="small-caps">Dearest Emily</span>,—I know that Hubert told -you that he was not going to marry me. He thought he was not, <a -name="268.png" class="pb"></a> for I had refused to marry him; but a short -time after we met in the park quite accidentally, and—well, fate took the -matter out of our hands, and we are to be married to-morrow. Hubert insists -on going to Italy, and I believe we shall remain there two months. We have -made arrangements for your aunt to live with you until we come back; and -when we do come back, I hope all the little unpleasantnesses which have -marred our friendship for this last month or two will be forgotten. So far -as I am concerned, nothing shall be left undone to make you happy. Your -will shall be law at Ashwood so long as I am there. If you would like to -join us in Italy, you have only to say the word. We shall be delighted to -have you.'</p> </blockquote> - -<p>Emily could read no more. 'Join them in Italy!' She dashed the letter -into the fire, and an intense hatred of them both pierced her heart and -brain. It was the kiss of Judas. Oh, those hateful, lying words! To live -here with her aunt until they came back, to wait here quietly until she -returned in triumph with him—him who had been all the world to her. Oh no; -that was not possible. Death, death—escape she must. But how? She had no -more chloral. Suddenly she thought of the lake. 'Yes, yes; the lake, the -lake!' And then a keen, swift, passionate longing for death, such as she -had not felt at all the night before, came upon her. There was the -knowledge <a name="269.png" class="pb"></a> too that by killing herself she -would revenge herself on those who had killed her. She was just conscious -that her suicide would have this effect, but hardly a trace of such -intention appeared in the letter she wrote; it was as melancholy and as -brief as the letter she had torn up, and ended, like it, with a request -that Dandy should be well looked after. She had only just directed the -envelope when she heard the servant coming to take away the tea-things. She -concealed the letter; and when his steps died away in the corridor and the -house-door closed, she knew she could slip out unobserved. Instinctively -she thought of her hat and jacket, and, without a shudder, remembered she -would not need them. She sped down the pathway through the shadow of the -firs.</p> - -<p>It was one of those warm nights of winter when a sulphur-coloured sky -hangs like a blanket behind the wet, dishevelled woods; and, though there -was neither moon nor star, the night was strangely clear, and the shadow of -the bridge was distinct in the water. When she approached the brink the -swans moved slowly away. They reminded her of the cold; but the black -obsession of death was upon her; and, hastening her steps, she threw -herself forward. She fell into shallow water and regained her feet, and for -<a name="270.png" class="pb"></a> a moment it seemed uncertain if she would -wade to the bank or fling herself into a deeper place. Suddenly she sank, -the water rising to her shoulders. She was lifted off her feet. A faint -struggle, a faint cry, and then nothing—nothing but the whiteness of the -swans moving through the sultry night slowly towards the island.</p> - -<a name="271.png" class="pb"></a> - -<h2>XX</h2> - -<p><span class="small-caps">Its</span> rich, inanimate air proclaimed the -room to be an expensive bedroom in a first-class London hotel. Interest in -the newly-married couple, who were to occupy the room, prompted the -servants to see that nothing was forgotten; and as they lingered steps were -heard in the passage, and Hubert and Julia entered. The maid-servants stood -aside to let them pass, and one inquired if madame wanted anything, so that -her eyes might be gratified with a last inquisition of the happy pair.</p> - -<p>'How wonderful! oh, how wonderful! I don't think I ever saw any one act -before like that—did you?'</p> - -<p>'She certainly had three or four moments that could not be surpassed. -Her entrance in the sleep-walking scene—what vague horror! what pale -presentiment! how she filled the stage! nothing seemed to exist but -she.'</p> - -<p>'And Ford; what did you think of Ford's Macbeth?'</p> - -<a name="272.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Very good. Everything he does is good. Talent; but the other has -genius.'</p> - -<p>'I shall never forget this evening. What an awful tragedy!'</p> - -<p>'Perhaps I should have taken you to see something more cheerful; but I -wanted to see Miss Massey play Lady Macbeth. But let us talk of something -else. Splendid fire—is it not?'</p> - -<p>Hubert threw off his overcoat, the movement attracted Julia's attention, -and it startled her to see how old he seemed to have grown. She noticed as -she had not noticed before the grey in his beard and the pathetic weary -look that haunted his eyes. And she understood in that instant that the -look his face wore was the look of those who have failed in their -vocation.</p> - -<p>And at that very moment he was wondering if he really loved her, if his -marriage were a mistake. The passion he had felt when walking with her on -the wet country road he felt no longer, only an undefinable sadness and a -weariness which he could not understand. He looked at his wife, and fearing -that she divined his thoughts, he kissed her. She returned his kiss coldly -and he wondered if she loved him. He thought that it was improbable that -she did. Why should she love him? He <a name="273.png" class="pb"></a> had -never loved any one. He had never inspired love in any one, except perhaps -Emily.</p> - -<p>'I wonder if you really wished to be married,' she said.</p> - -<p>'I always wished to be married,' he replied. 'I hated the Bohemianism I was forced to live in. I longed for a -home, for a wife.'</p> - -<p>'You were very poor once?'</p> - -<p>'Yes: I've lived on tenpence and a shilling a day. I've worked in the -docks as a labourer. I went down there hoping to get a clerkship on board -one of the Transatlantic steamers. I had had enough of England, and thought -of seeking fortune elsewhere.'</p> - -<p>'I can hardly believe you worked as a labourer in the docks.'</p> - -<p>'Yes; I did. I saw some men going to work, and I joined them. I don't -think I thought much about it at the time. A very little misery rubs all -the psychology out of us, and we return more easily than one thinks to the -animal.'</p> - -<p>'And then?'</p> - -<p>'At the end of a week the work began to tell upon me, and I drifted back -in search of my manuscript.'</p> - -<p>'But you must have been in a dreadful condition; your clothes——'</p> - -<a name="274.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Ah! thereby hangs a tale. An actress lived in one of the houses I had -been lodging in.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, tell me about her! This is getting very interesting.'</p> - -<p>Then passing his arm round his wife's neck, and with her sweet blonde -face looking upon him, and the insinuating warmth of the fire about them, -he told her the story of his failure.</p> - -<p>'But,' she said, her voice trembling, 'you would not have committed -suicide?'</p> - -<p>'No man knows beforehand whether he will commit suicide. I can only say -that every other issue was closed.'</p> - -<p>At the end of a long silence Julia said, 'I wish you hadn't spoken about -suicide. I cannot but think of Emily. If she were to make away with -herself! The very possibility turns my heart to ice. What should I do—what -should we do? I ought never to have given way; we were both abominably -selfish. I can see that poor girl sitting alone in that house grieving her -heart out.'</p> - -<p>'You think that we ought never to have given way!'</p> - -<p>'I suppose we ought not. I tried very hard, you know I did.... But do -you regret?' she said, looking at him suddenly.</p> - -<a name="275.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'No; I don't regret, but I wish it had happened otherwise.'</p> - -<p>'You don't fear anything. Nothing will happen. What can happen?'</p> - -<p>'The most terrible things often happen—have happened.'</p> - -<p>'Emily may have been fond of me—I think she was; but it was no more -than the hysterical caprice of a young girl. Besides, people do not die for -love; and I assure you it will be all right. This is not a time for gloomy -thoughts.'</p> - -<p>'I'll try not to think of her. Well, what were we talking about? I know: -about the actress who lived in 17 Fitzroy Street. Tell me about her.'</p> - -<p>'She was a real good girl. If she hadn't lent me that five shillings, I -don't know where I should be now.'</p> - -<p>'Were you very fond of her?'</p> - -<p>'No; there never was anything of that sort between us. We were merely -friends.'</p> - -<p>'And what has become of this actress?'</p> - -<p>'You saw her to-night?'</p> - -<p>'Was she acting in the piece we saw to-night?'</p> - -<p>'It was she who played Lady Macbeth.'</p> - -<p>'You are joking.'</p> - -<a name="276.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'No, I'm not. I always knew she had genius, and they have found it out; -but I must say they have taken their time about it.'</p> - -<p>'How wonderful! she has succeeded!'</p> - -<p>'Yes, <i>she</i> has succeeded!'</p> - -<p>'And she is really the girl you intended to play Lady Hayward?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; and I hope she will play the part one of these days.'</p> - -<p>'Of course, she is just the woman for it. What a splendid success she -has had! All London is talking about her.'</p> - -<p>'And I remember when Ford refused to cast her for the adventuress in -<i>Divorce</i>. If he had, there is no doubt she would have carried the -piece through. Life is but a bundle of chances; she has succeeded, whatever -that may mean.'</p> - -<p>'But you will let her have the part of Lady Hayward?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, of course—that is to say, if——'</p> - -<p>'Why "if"?'</p> - -<p>'My thoughts are with you, dear; literature seems to have passed out of -sight.'</p> - -<p>'But you must not sacrifice your talent in worship of me. I shall not -allow you. For my sake, if not <a name="277.png" class="pb"></a> for hers, -you must finish that play. I want you to be famous. I should be for ever -miserable if my love proved a upas-tree.'</p> - -<p>'A upas-tree! It will be you who will help me; it will be your presence -that will help me to write my play. I was always vaguely conscious that you -were a necessary element in my life; but I did not wake up to any knowledge -of it until that day—do you remember?—when you came into my study to ask -me what fish I'd like for dinner, and I begged of you to allow me to read -to you that second act. It is that second act that stops me.'</p> - -<p>'I thought you had written the second act to your satisfaction. You said -that after the talk we had that afternoon you wrote for three hours without -stopping, and that you had never done better work.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I wrote a great deal; but on reading it over I found that—I don't -mean to say that none of it will stand; some still seems to me to be all -right, but a great deal will require alteration.'</p> - -<p>The conversation fell. At the end of a long silence Hubert said—</p> - -<p>'What are you thinking of, dearest?'</p> - -<p>'I was thinking that supposing you were mistaken—if I failed to help -you in your work.'</p> - -<a name="278.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'And I never succeeded in writing my play?'</p> - -<p>'No; I don't mean that. Of course you will write your play; all you have -to do is to be less critical.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, I know—I have heard that before; but, unfortunately, we cannot -change ourselves. I'll either carry my play through completely, realise my -ideal, or——'</p> - -<p>'Remain for ever unsatisfied?'</p> - -<p>'Whether I write it or no, I shall be happy in your love.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, yes; let us be happy.'</p> - -<p>They looked at each other. He did not speak, but his thought said—</p> - -<p>'There is no happiness on earth for him who has not accomplished his -task.'</p> - -<p>'Shall we be happy? I wonder. We have both suffered,' she said, 'we are -both tired of suffering, and it is only right that we should be happy.'</p> - -<p>'Yes, we shall be happy, I will be happy. It shall be my pleasure to -attend to you, to give you all your desire. But you said just now that you -had suffered. I have told you my past. Tell me yours. I know nothing except -that you were unhappily married.'</p> - -<p>'There is little else to know; a woman's life is not adventurous, like a -man's. I have not known <a name="279.png" class="pb"></a> the excitement of -"first nights," nor the striving and the craving for an artistic ideal. My -life has been essentially a woman's life,—suppression of self and -monotonous duty, varied by heart-breaking misfortune. I married when I was -very young; before I had even begun to think about life I found—— But why -distress these hours with painful memories?'</p> - -<p>'It is pleasant to look back on the troubles we have passed -through.'</p> - -<p>'Well, I learnt in one year the meaning of three terrible -words—poverty, neglect, and cruelty. In the second year of my marriage my -husband died of drink, and I was left a widow at twenty, entirely -penniless. I went to live with my sister, and she was so poor that I had to -support myself by giving music-lessons. You think you know the meaning of -poverty: you may; but you do not know what a young woman who wants to earn -her bread honestly has to put up with, trudging through wet and cold, mile -after mile, to give a lesson, paid for at the rate of one-and-sixpence or -two shillings an hour.'</p> - -<p>Julia took her eyes from her husband's face, and looked dreamily into -the fire. Then, raising her face from the flame, she looked around with the -air of one seeking for some topic of conversation. At that <a -name="280.png" class="pb"></a> moment she caught sight of the corner of a -letter lying on the mantelpiece. Reaching forth her hand, she took it. It -was addressed to her husband.</p> - -<p>'Here is a letter for you, Hubert.... Why, it comes from Ashwood. Yes, -and it is in the hand-writing of one of the servants. Oh, it is Black's -writing! It may be about Emily. Something may have happened to her. Open it -quickly.'</p> - -<p>'That is not probable. Nothing can have happened to her.'</p> - -<p>'Look and see. Be quick!'</p> - -<p>Hubert opened the letter, and he had not read three lines when Julia's -face caught expression from his, which had become overcast.</p> - -<p>'It is bad news, I know. Something has happened. What is it? Don't keep -me waiting. The suspense is worse than the truth.'</p> - -<p>'It is very awful, Julia. Don't give way.'</p> - -<p>'Tell me what it is. Is she dead?</p> - -<p>'Yes; she is dead.' Julia got up from her husband's knees and stood by -the mantelpiece, leaning upon it. 'It is more than mere death.'</p> - -<p>'What do you mean? She killed herself—is that it?'</p> - -<p>'Yes; she drowned herself the night before last in the lake.'</p> - -<a name="281.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>'Oh, it is too horrible! Then we have murdered her. Our unpardonable -selfishness! I cannot bear it!' Her eyes closed and her lips trembled. -Hubert caught her in his arms, laid her on the chair, and, fetching some -water in a tumbler, sprinkled her face; then he held it to her lips; she -drank a little, and revived. 'I'm not going to faint. Tell me—tell me when -the unfortunate child——'</p> - -<p>'They don't know exactly. She was in the drawing-room at tea-time, and -the drawing-room was empty when Black went round three-quarters of an hour -after to lock up. He thought she had gone to her room. It was the gardener -who brought in the news in the morning about nine.'</p> - -<p>'Oh, good God!'</p> - -<p>'Black says he noticed that she looked very depressed the day before, -but he thought she was looking better when he brought in the tea.'</p> - -<p>'It was then she got my letter. Does Black say anything about giving her -a letter?'</p> - -<p>'Yes, that is to say——'</p> - -<p>'I knew it! I knew it!' said Julia; and her eyes were wild with grief, -and she rocked herself to and fro. 'It was that letter that drove her to -it. It was most ill-advised. I told you so. You should have <a -name="282.png" class="pb"></a> written. She would have borne the news -better had it come from you. My instinct told me so, but I let myself be -persuaded. I told you how it would happen. I told you. You can't say I -didn't. Oh! why did you persuade me—why—why—why?'</p> - -<p>'Julia dear, we are not responsible. We were in nowise bound to -sacrifice our happiness to her——'</p> - -<p>'Don't say a word! I say we were bound. Life can never be the same to me -again.'</p> - -<p>Hubert did not answer. Nothing he could say would be of the slightest -avail, and he feared to say anything that might draw from her expressions -which she would afterwards regret. He had never seen her moved like this, -nor did he believe her capable of such agitation, and the contrast of her -present with her usual demeanour made it the more impressive.</p> - -<p>'Oh,' she said, leaning forward and looking at him fixedly, 'take this -nightmare off my brain, or I shall go mad! It isn't true; it cannot be -true. But—oh! yes, it's true enough.'</p> - -<p>'Like you, Julia, I am overwhelmed; but we can do nothing.'</p> - -<p>'Do nothing!' she cried; 'do nothing! We can do nothing but pray for -her—we who sacrificed her.' <a name="283.png" class="pb"></a> And she -slipped on her knees and burst into a passionate fit of weeping.</p> - -<p>'The best thing that could have happened,' thought Hubert; and his -thought said, clearly and precisely, 'Yes; it is awful, shocking, cruel -beyond measure!'</p> - -<p>The fire was sinking, and he built it up quietly, ashamed of this proof -of his regard for physical comfort, and hoping it would pass unnoticed. His -pain expressed itself less vehemently than Julia's; but for all that his -mind ached. He remembered how he had taken everything from her—fortune, -happiness, and now life itself. It was an appalling tragedy—one of those -senseless cruelties which we find nature constantly inventing. A thought -revealed an unexpected analogy between him and his victim. In both lives -there had been a supreme desire, and both had failed. 'Hers was the better -part,' he said bitterly. 'Those whose souls are burdened with desire that -may not be gratified had better fling the load aside. They are fools who -carry it on to the end.... If it were not for Julia——'</p> - -<p>Then he sought to determine what were his exact feelings. He knew he was -infinitely sorry for poor Emily; but he could not stir himself into a -paroxysm <a name="284.png" class="pb"></a> of grief, and, ashamed of his -inability to express his feelings, he looked at Julia, who still wept.</p> - -<p>'No doubt,' he thought, 'women have keener feelings than we have.'</p> - -<p>At that moment Julia got up from her knees. She had brushed away her -tears. Her face was shaken with grief.</p> - -<p>'My heart is breaking,' she said. 'This is too cruel—too cruel! And on -my wedding night.'</p> - -<p>Their eyes met; and, divining each other's thought, each felt ashamed, -and Julia said—</p> - -<p>'Oh, what am I saying? This dreadful selfishness, from which we cannot -escape, that is with us even in such a moment as this! That poor child gone -to her death, and yet amid it all we must think of ourselves.'</p> - -<p>'My dear Julia, we cannot escape from our human nature; but, for all -that, our grief is sincere. We can do nothing. Do not grieve like -that.'</p> - -<p>'And why not? She was my best friend. How have I repaid her? Alas! as -woman always repays woman for kindness done. The old story. I cannot -forgive myself. No, no! do not kiss me! I cannot bear it. Leave me. I can -see nothing but Emily's reproachful face.' She covered her face in her -hands and sobbed again.</p> - -<a name="285.png" class="pb"></a> - -<p>The same scenes repeated themselves over and over again. The same fits -of passionate grief; the same moment of calm, when words impregnated with -self dropped from their lips. The same nervous sense that something of the -dead girl stood between them. And still they sat by the fire, weary with -sorrow, recrimination, long regret, and pain. They could grieve no more; -and before dawn sleep pressed upon their eyelids, and at the end of a long -silence he dozed—a pale, transparent sleep, through which the realities of -life appeared almost as plainly as before. Suddenly he awoke, and he -shivered in the chill room. The fire was sinking; dawn divided the -window-curtains. He looked at his wife. She seemed to him very beautiful as -she slept, her face turned a little on one side, and again he asked himself -if he loved her. Then, going to the window, he drew the curtains softly, so -as not to awaken her; and as he stood watching a thin discoloured day -breaking over the roofs, it again seemed to him that Emily's suicide was -the better part. 'Those who do not perform their task in life are never -happy.' The words drilled themselves into his brain with relentless -insistency. He felt a terrible emptiness within him which he could not -fill. He looked at his wife and quailed a little <a name="286.png" -class="pb"></a> at the thought that had suddenly come upon him. She was -something like himself—that was why he had married her. We are attracted -by what is like ourselves. Emily's passion might have stirred him. Now he -would have to settle down to live with Julia, and their similar natures -would grow more and more like one another. Then, turning on his thoughts, -he dismissed them. They were the morbid feverish fancies of an exceptional, -of a terrible night. He opened the window quietly so as not to awaken his -wife. And in the melancholy greyness of the dawn he looked down into the -street and wondered what the end would be.</p> - -<p>He did not think that he would live long. Disappointed men—those who -have failed in their ambition—do not live to make old bones. There were -men like him in every profession—the arts are crowded with them. He had -met barristers and soldiers and clergy-men, just like himself. One hears of -their deaths—failure of the heart's action, paralysis of the brain, a -hundred other medical causes—but the real cause is, lack of -appreciation.</p> - -<p>He would hang on for another few years, no doubt; during that time he -must try to make his wife happy. <a name="287.png" class="pb"></a> His duty -was now to be a good husband, at all events, there was that.</p> - -<p>His wife lay asleep in the arm-chair, and fearing she might catch cold, -he came into the room closing the window very gently behind him.</p> - -<p>THE END</p> - -<p>Printed by T. and A. <span class="small-caps">Constable</span>, printers -to Her Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press.</p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Vain Fortune, by George Moore - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VAIN FORTUNE *** - -***** This file should be named 11303-h.htm or 11303-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/3/0/11303/ - -Produced by Jon Ingram, Branko Collin and PG Distributed Proofreaders - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - - - - -Title: Vain Fortune - -Author: George Moore - -Release Date: February 26, 2004 [eBook #11303] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: US-ASCII - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VAIN FORTUNE*** - - - -[Illustration: "She slipped on her knees, and burst into a passionate fit -of weeping."] - -Vain Fortune - -A Novel - -By - -George Moore - -_With Five Illustrations By__Maurice Greiffenhagen_ - -New Edition - -Completely Revised - -London: Walter Scott, Ltd. Paternoster Square - -1895 - -Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty - - - - -Prefatory Note - - -I hope it will not seem presumptuous to ask my critics to treat this new -edition of _Vain Fortune_ as a new book: for it is a new book. The first -edition was kindly noticed, but it attracted little attention, and very -rightly, for the story as told therein was thin and insipid; and when -Messrs. Scribner proposed to print the book in America, I stipulated that I -should be allowed to rewrite it. They consented, and I began the story with -Emily Watson, making her the principal character instead of Hubert Price. -Some months after I received a letter from Madam Couperus, offering to -translate the English edition into Dutch. I sent her the American edition, -and asked her which she would prefer to translate from. Madam Couperus -replied that many things in the English edition, which she would like to -retain, had been omitted from the American edition, that the hundred or -more pages which I had written for the American edition seemed to her -equally worthy of retention. - -She pointed out that, without the alteration of a sentence, the two -versions could be combined. The idea had not occurred to me; I saw, -however, that what she proposed was not only feasible but advantageous. I -wrote, therefore, giving her the required permission, and thanking her for -a suggestion which I should avail myself of when the time came for a new -English edition. - -The union of the texts was no doubt accomplished by Madam Couperus, without -the alteration of a sentence; but no such accomplished editing is possible -to me; I am a victim to the disease of rewriting, and the inclusion of the -hundred or more pages of new matter written for the American edition led me -into a third revision of the story. But no more than in the second has the -skeleton, or the attitude of the skeleton been altered in this third -version, only flesh and muscle have been added, and, I think, a little -life. _Vain Fortune_, even in its present form, is probably not my best -book, but it certainly is far from being my worst. But my opinion regarding -my own work is of no value; I do not write this Prefatory Note to express -it, but to ask my critics and my readers to forget the original _Vain -Fortune_, and to read this new book as if it were issued under another -title. - -G.M. - - - - -I - - -The lamp had not been wiped, and the room smelt slightly of paraffin. The -old window-curtains, whose harsh green age had not softened, were drawn. -The mahogany sideboard, the threadbare carpet, the small horsehair sofa, -the gilt mirror, standing on a white marble chimney-piece, said clearly, -'Furnished apartments in a house built about a hundred years ago.' There -were piles of newspapers, there were books on the mahogany sideboard and on -the horsehair sofa, and on the table there were various manuscripts,--_The -Gipsy_, Act I.; _The Gipsy_, Act III., Scenes iii. and iv. - -A sheet of foolscap paper, and upon it a long slender hand. The hand traced -a few lines of fine, beautiful caligraphy, then it paused, correcting with -extreme care what was already written, and in a hesitating, minute way, -telling of a brain that delighted in the correction rather than in the -creation of form. - -The shirt-cuff was frayed and dirty. The coat was thin and shiny. A -half-length figure of a man drew out of the massed shadows between the -window and sideboard. The red beard caught the light, and the wavy brown -hair brightened. Then a look of weariness, of distress, passed over the -face, and the man laid down the pen, and, taking some tobacco from a paper, -rolled a cigarette. Rising, and leaning forward, he lighted it over the -lamp. He was a man of about thirty-six feet, broad-shouldered, well-built, -healthy, almost handsome. - -The time he spent in dreaming his play amounted to six times, if not ten -times, as much as he devoted to trying to write it; and he now lit -cigarette after cigarette, abandoning himself to every meditation,--the -unpleasantness of life in lodgings, the charm of foreign travel, the beauty -of the south, what he would do if his play succeeded. He plunged into -calculation of the time it would take him to finish it if he were to sit at -home all day, working from seven to ten hours every day. If he could but -make up his mind concerning the beginning and the middle of the third act, -and about the end, too,--the solution,--he felt sure that, with steady -work, the play could be completed in a fortnight. In such reverie and such -consideration he lay immersed, oblivious of the present moment, and did not -stir from his chair until the postman shook the frail walls with a violent -double knock. He hoped for a letter, for a newspaper--either would prove a -welcome distraction. The servant's footsteps on the stairs told him the -post had brought him something. His heart sank at the thought that it was -probably only a bill, and he glanced at all the bills lying one above -another on the table. - -It was not a bill, nor yet an advertisement, but a copy of a weekly review. -He tore it open. An article about himself! - -After referring to the deplorable condition of the modern stage, the writer -pointed out how dramatic writing has of late years come to be practised -entirely by men who have failed in all other branches of literature. Then -he drew attention to the fact that signs of weariness and dissatisfaction -with the old stale stories, the familiar tricks in bringing about 'striking -situations,' were noticeable, not only in the newspaper criticisms of new -plays, but also among the better portion of the audience. He admitted, -however, that hitherto the attempts made by younger writers in the -direction of new subject-matter and new treatment had met with little -success. But this, he held, was not a reason for discouragement. Did those -who believed in the old formulas imagine that the new formula would be -discovered straight away, without failures preliminary? Besides, these -attempts were not utterly despicable; at least one play written on the new -lines had met with some measure of success, and that play was Mr. Hubert -Price's _Divorce_. - -'Yes, the fellow is right. The public is ready for a good play: it wasn't -when _Divorce_ was given. I must finish _The Gipsy_. There are good things -in it; that I know. But I wish I could get that third act right. The public -will accept a masterpiece, but it will not accept an attempt to write a -masterpiece. But this time there'll be no falling off in the last acts. The -scene between the gipsy lover and the young lord will fetch 'em.' Taking up -the review, Hubert glanced over the article a second time. 'How anxious the -fellows are for me to achieve a success! How they believe in me! They -desire it more than I do. They believe in me more than I do in myself. They -want to applaud me. They are hungry for the masterpiece.' - -At that moment his eye was caught by some letters written on blue paper. -His face resumed a wearied and hunted expression. 'There's no doubt about -it, money I must get somehow. I am running it altogether too fine. There -isn't twenty pounds between me and the deep sea.' - - * * * * * - -He was the son of the Rev. James Price, a Shropshire clergyman. The family -was of Welsh extraction, but in Hubert none of the physical characteristics -of the Celt appeared. He might have been selected as a typical Anglo-Saxon. -The face was long and pale, and he wore a short reddish beard; the eyes -were light blue, verging on grey, and they seemed to speak a quiet, -steadfast soul. Hubert had always been his mother's favourite, and the -scorn of his elder brothers, two rough boys, addicted in early youth to -robbing orchards, and later on to gambling and drinking. The elder, after -having broken his father's heart with debts and disgraceful living, had -gone out to the Cape. News of his death came to the Rectory soon after; but -James's death did not turn Henry from his evil courses, and one day his -father and mother had to go to London on his account, and they brought him -back a hopeless invalid. Hubert was twelve years of age when he followed -his brother to the grave. - -It was at his brother's funeral that Hubert met for the first time his -uncle, Mr. Burnett. Mr. Burnett had spent the greater part of his life in -New Zealand, where he had made a large fortune by sheep-farming and -investments in land. He had seemed to be greatly taken with his nephew, and -for many years it was understood that he would leave him the greater part, -if not the whole, of his fortune. But Mr. Burnett had come under the -influence of some poor relations, some distant cousins, the Watsons, and -had eventually decided to adopt their daughter Emily and leave her his -fortune. He did not dare intimate his change of mind to his sister; but the -news having reached Mrs. Price in various rumours, she wrote to her brother -asking him to confirm or deny these rumours; and when he admitted their -truth, Mrs. Price never spoke to him again. She was a determined woman, and -the remembrance of the wrong done to her son never left her. - -While the other children had been a torment and disgrace, Hubert had been -to his parents a consolation and a blessing. They had feared that he too -might turn to betting and drink, but he had never shown sign of low tastes. -He played no games, nor did he care for terriers or horses; but for books -and drawing, and long country walks. Immediately on hearing of his -disinheritance he had spoken at once of entering a profession; and for many -months this was the subject of consideration in the Rectory. Hubert joined -in these discussions willingly, but he could not bring himself to accept -the army or the bar. It was indeed only necessary to look at him to see -that neither soldier's tunic nor lawyer's wig was intended for him; and it -was nearly as clear that those earnest eyes, so intelligent and yet so -undetermined in their gaze, were not those of a doctor. - -But if his eyes failed to predict his future, his hands told the story of -his life distinctly enough--those long, white, languid hands, what could -they mean but art? And very soon Hubert began to draw, evincing some -natural aptitude. Then an artist came into the neighbourhood, the two -became friends, and went together on a long sketching tour. Life in the -open air, the shade of the hedge, the glare of the highway, the meditation -of the field, the languor of the river-side, the contemplation of wooded -horizons, was what Hubert's pastoral nature was most fitted to enjoy; and, -for the sake of the life it afforded him, he pursued the calling of a -landscape painter long after he had begun to feel his desire turning in -another direction. When the landscape on the canvas seemed hopelessly -inadequate, he laid aside the brush for the pencil, and strove to interpret -the summer fields in verse. From verse he drifted into the article and the -short story, and from the story into the play. And it was in this last form -that he felt himself strongest, and various were the dramas and comedies -that he dreamed from year's end to year's end. - -While he was in the midst of his period of verse-writing his mother died, -and in the following year, just as he was working at his stories, he -received a telegram calling him to attend his father's death-bed. When the -old man was laid in the shadow of the weather-beaten village church, Hubert -gathered all his belongings and bade farewell for ever to the Shropshire -rectory. - -In London Hubert made few friends. There were some two or three men with -whom he was frequently seen--quiet folk like himself, whose enjoyment -consisted in smoking a tranquil pipe in the evening, or going for long -walks in the country. He was one of those men whose indefiniteness provokes -curiosity, and his friends noticed and wondered why it was that he was so -frequently the theme of their conversation. His simple, unaffected manners -were full of suggestion, and in his writings there was always an -indefinable rainbow-like promise of ultimate achievement. So, long before -he had succeeded in writing a play, detached scenes and occasional verses -led his friends into gradual belief that he was one from whom big things -might be expected. And when the one-act play which they had all so heartily -approved of was produced, and every newspaper praised it for its literary -quality, the friends took pride in this public vindication of their -opinion. After the production of his play people came to see the new -author, and every Saturday evening some fifteen or twenty men used to -assemble in Hubert's lodgings to drink whisky, smoke cigars, and talk -drama. Encouraged by his success, Hubert wrote _Divorce_. He worked -unceasingly upon it for more than a year, and when he had written the final -scene, he was breaking into his last hundred pounds. The play was refused -twice, and then accepted by a theatrical speculator, to whom it seemed to -afford opportunity for the exhibition of the talents of a lady he was -interested in. - -The success of the play was brief. But before it was withdrawn, Hubert had -sold the American rights for a handsome sum, and within the next two years -he had completed a second play, which he called _An Ebbing Tide_. Some of -the critics argued that it contained scenes as fine as any in _Divorce_, -but it was admitted on all sides that the interest withered in the later -acts. But the failure of the play did not shake the established belief in -Hubert's genius; it merely concentrated the admiration of those interested -in the new art upon _Divorce_, the partial failure of which was now -attributed to the acting. If it had only been played at the Haymarket or -the Lyceum, it could not have failed. - -The next three years Hubert wasted in various aestheticisms. He explained -the difference between the romantic and realistic methods in the reviews; -he played with a poetic drama to be called _The King of the Beggars_, and -it was not until the close of the third year that he settled down to -definite work. Then all his energies were concentrated on a new play--_The -Gipsy_. A young woman of Bohemian origin is suddenly taken with the -nostalgia of the tent, and leaves her husband and her home to wander with -those of her race. He had read portions of this play to his friends, who at -last succeeded in driving Montague Ford, the popular actor-manager, to -Hubert's door; and after hearing some few scenes he had offered a couple of -hundred pounds in advance of fees for the completed manuscript. 'But when -can I have the manuscript?' said Ford, as he was about to leave. 'As soon -as I can finish it,' Hubert replied, looking at him wistfully out of pale -blue-grey eyes. 'I could finish it in a month, if I could count on not -being worried by duns or disturbed by friends during that time.' - -Ford looked at Hubert questioningly; then he said 'I have always noticed -that when a fellow wants to finish a play, the only way to do it is to go -away to the country and leave no address.' - -But the country was always so full of pleasure for him, that he doubted his -power to remain indoors with the temptation of fields and rivers before his -eyes, and he thought that to escape from dunning creditors it would be -sufficient to change his address. So he left Norfolk Street for the more -remote quarter of Fitzroy Street, where he took a couple of rooms on the -second floor. One of his fellow-lodgers, he soon found, was Rose Massey, an -actress engaged for the performance of small parts at the Queen's Theatre. -The first time he spoke to her was on the doorstep. She had forgotten her -latch-key, and he said, 'Will you allow me to let you in?' She stepped -aside, but did not answer him. Hubert thought her rude, but her strange -eyes and absent-minded manner had piqued his curiosity, and, having nothing -to do that night, he went to the theatre to see her act. She was playing a -very small part, and one that was evidently unsuited to her--a part that -was in contradiction to her nature; but there was something behind the -outer envelope which led him to believe she had real talent, and would make -a name for herself when she was given a part that would allow her to reveal -what was in her. - -In the meantime, Rose had been told that the gentleman she had snubbed in -the passage was Mr. Hubert Price, the author of _Divorce_. - -'Oh, it was very silly of me,' she said to Annie. 'If I had only known!' - -'Lor', he don't mind; he'll be glad enough to speak to you when you meets -him again.' - -And when they met again on the stairs, Rose nodded familiarly, and Hubert -said-- - -'I went to the Queen's the other night.' - -'Did you like the piece?' - -'I did not care about the piece; but when you get a wild, passionate part -to play, you'll make a hit. The sentimental parts they give you don't suit -you.' - -A sudden light came into the languid face. 'Yes, I shall do something if I -can get a part like that.' - -Hubert told her that he was writing a play containing just such a part. - -Her eyes brightened again. 'Will you read me the play?' she said, fixing -her dark, dreamy eyes on him. - -'I shall be very glad.... Do you think it won't bore you?' And his wistful -grey eyes were full of interrogation. - -'No, I'm sure it won't.' - -And a few days after she sent Annie with a note, reminding him of his -promise to read her what he had written. As she had only a bedroom, the -reading had to take place in his sitting-room. He read her the first and -second acts. She was all enthusiasm, and begged hard to be allowed to study -the part--just to see what she could do with it--just to let him see that -he was not mistaken in her. Her interest in his work captivated him, and he -couldn't refuse to lend her the manuscript. - - - - -II - - -Rose often came to see Hubert in his rooms. Her manner was disappointing, -and he thought he must be mistaken in his first judgment of her talents. -But one afternoon she gave him a recitation of the sleep-walking scene in -_Macbeth_. It was strange to see this little dark-complexioned, dark-eyed -girl, the merest handful of flesh and bone, divest herself at will of her -personality, and assume the tragic horror of Lady Macbeth, or the -passionate rapture of Juliet detaining her husband-lover on the balcony of -her chamber. Hubert watched in wonderment this girl, so weak and languid in -her own nature, awaking only to life when she assumed the personality of -another. There she lay, her wispy form stretched in his arm-chair, her -great dark eyes fixed, her mind at rest, sunk in some inscrutable dream. -Her thin hand lay on the arm of the chair: when she woke from her day-dream -she burst into irresponsible laughter, or questioned him with petulant -curiosity. He looked again: her dark curling hair hung on her swarthy neck, -and she was somewhat untidily dressed in blue linen. - -'Were you ever in love?' she said suddenly. 'I don't suppose you could be; -you are too occupied with your play. I don't know, though; you might be in -love, but I don't think that many women would be in love with you.... You -are too good a man, and women don't like good men.' - -Hubert laughed, and without a trace of offended vanity in his voice he -said, 'I don't profess to be much of a lady-killer.' - -'You don't know what I mean,' she said, looking at him fixedly, a maze of -half-childish, half-artistic curiosity in her handsome eyes. - -Perplexed in his shy, straightford nature, Hubert inquired if she took -sugar in her tea. She said she did; stretched her feet to the fire, and -lapsed into dream. She was one of the enigmas of Stageland. She supported -herself, and went about by herself, looking a poor, lost little thing. She -spoke with considerable freedom of language on all subjects, but no one had -been able to fix a lover upon her. - -'What a part Lady Hayward is! But tell me,--I don't quite catch your -meaning in the second act. Is this it?' and starting to her feet, she -became in a moment another being. With a gesture, a look, an intonation, -she was the woman of the play,--a woman taken by an instinct, long -submerged, but which has floated to the surface, and is beginning to -command her actions. In another moment she had slipped back into her weary -lymphatic nature, at once prematurely old and extravagantly childish. She -could not talk of indifferent things; and having asked some strange -questions, and laughed loudly, she wished Hubert 'Good-afternoon' in her -curious, irresponsible fashion, taking her leave abruptly. - -The next two days Hubert devoted entirely to his play. There were things in -it which he knew were good, but it was incomplete. Montague Ford would not -produce it in its present form. He must put his shoulder to the wheel and -get it right; one more push, that was all that was wanted. And he could be -heard walking to and fro, up and down, along and across his tiny -sitting-room, stopping suddenly to take a note of an idea that had occurred -to him. - -One day he went to Hampstead Heath. A long walk, he thought, would clear -his mind, and he returned home thinking of his play. The sunset still -glittering in the skies; the bare trees were beautifully distinct on the -blue background of the suburban street, and at the end of the long -perspective, a 'bus and a hansom could be seen coming towards him. As they -grew larger, his thoughts defined themselves, and the distressing problem -of his fourth act seemed to solve itself. That very evening he would sketch -out a new dramatic movement around which all the other movements of the act -would cluster. But at the corner of Fitzroy Square, within a few yards of -No. 17, he was accosted by a shabbily-dressed man, who inquired if he were -Mr. Price. On being answered in the affirmative, the shabbily-dressed man -said, 'Then I have something for ye; I have been a-watching for ye for the -last three days, but ye didn't come out; missed yer this morning: 'ere it -is;' and he thrust a folded paper into Hubert's hand. - -'What is this?' - -'Don't yer know?' he said with a grin; 'Messrs. Tomkins & Co., Tailors, -writ--twenty-two pound odd.' - -Hubert made no answer; he put the paper in his pocket, opened the door -quietly, stole up to his room, and sat down to think. The first thing to do -was to examine into his finances. It was alarming to find that he was -breaking into his last five-pound note. True that he was close on the end -of his play, and when it was finished he would be able to draw on Ford. But -a summons to appear in the county court could not fail to do him immense -injury. He had heard of avoiding service, but he knew little of the law, -and wondered what power the service of the writ gave his creditor over him. -His instinct was to escape--hide himself where they would not be able to -find him, and so obtain time to finish his play. But he owed his landlady -money, and his departure would have to be clandestine. As he reflected on -how many necessaries he might carry away in a newspaper, he began to feel -strangely like a criminal, and while rolling up a couple of shirts, a few -pairs of socks, and some collars, he paused, his hands resting on the -parcel. He did not seem to know himself, and it was difficult to believe -that he really intended to leave the house in this disreputable fashion. -Mechanically he continued to add to his parcel, thinking all the while that -he must go, otherwise his play would never be written. - -He had been working very well for the last few days, and now he saw his way -quite clearly; the inspiration he had been so long waiting for had come at -last, and he felt sure of his fourth act. At the same time he wished to -conduct himself honestly, even in this distressing situation. Should he -tell his landlady the truth? But the desire to realise his idea was -intolerable, and, yielding as if before an irresistible force, he tied the -parcel and prepared to go. At that moment he remembered that he must leave -a note for his landlady, and he was more than ever surprised at the -naturalness with which lying phrases came into his head. But when it came -to committing them to paper, he found he could not tell an absolute lie, -and he wrote a simple little note to the effect that he had been called -away on urgent business, and hoped to return in about a week. - -He descended the stairs softly. Mrs. Wilson's sitting-room opened on to the -passage; she might step out at any moment, and intercept his exit. He had -nearly reached the last flight when he remembered that he had forgotten his -manuscripts. His flesh turned cold, his heart stood still. There was -nothing for it but to ascend those creaking stairs again. His already -heavily encumbered pockets could not be persuaded to receive more than a -small portion of the manuscripts. He gathered them in his hand, and -prepared to redescend the perilous stairs. He walked as lightly as -possible, dreading that every creak would bring Mrs. Wilson from her -parlour. A few more steps, and he would be in the passage. A smell of dust, -sounds of children crying, children talking in the kitchen! A few more -steps, and, with his eyes on the parlour door, Hubert had reached the rug -at the foot of the stairs. He hastened along, the passage. Mrs. Wilson was -a moment too late. His hand was on the street-door when she appeared at the -door of her parlour. - -'Mr. Price, I want to speak to you before you go out. There has----' - -'I can't wait--running to catch a train. You'll find a letter on my table. -It will explain.' - -Hubert slipped out, closed the door, and ran down the street, and it was -not until he had put two or three streets between him and Fitzroy Street -that he relaxed his pace, and could look behind him without dreading to -feel the hand of the 'writter' upon his shoulder. - - - - -III - - -Then he wandered, not knowing where he was going, still in the sensation of -his escape, a little amused, and yet with a shadow of fear upon his soul, -for he grew more and more conscious of the fact that he was homeless, if -not quite penniless. Suddenly he stopped walking. Night was thickening in -the street, and he had to decide where he would sleep. He could not afford -to pay more than five or six shillings a week for a room, and he thought of -Holloway, as being a neighbourhood where creditors would not be able to -find him. So he retraced his steps, and, tired and footsore, entered the -Tottenham Court Road by the Oxford Street end. - -There the omnibuses stopped. A conductor shouted for fares, with the light -of the public-house lamps on his open mouth. There was smell of mud, of -damp clothes, of bad tobacco, and where the lights of the costermongers' -barrows broke across the footway the picture was of a group of three -coarse, loud-voiced girls, followed by boys. There were fish shops, cheap -Italian restaurants, and the long lines of low houses vanished in crapulent -night. The characteristics of the Tottenham Court Road impressed themselves -on Hubert's mind, and he thought how he would have to bear for at least -three weeks with all the grime of its poverty. It would take about that -time to finish his play, and the neighbourhood would suit his purpose -excellently well. So long as he did not pass beyond it he ran little risk -of discovery, and to secure himself against friends and foes he penetrated -farther northward, not stopping till he reached the confines of Holloway. - -Then a little dim street caught his eye, and he knocked at the door of the -first house exhibiting a card in the parlour window. But they did not let -their bedroom under seven shillings, and this seemed to Hubert to be an -extravagant price. He tried farther on, and at last found a clean room for -six shillings. Having no luggage, he paid a week's rent in advance, and the -landlady promised to get him a small table, on which he could write, a -small table that would fit in somewhere near the window. She asked him when -he would like to be called, and put the candlestick on the chair. Hubert -looked round the room, and a moment sufficed to complete the survey. It was -about seven feet long. The lower half of the window was curtained by a -piece of muslin hardly bigger than a good-sized pocket-handkerchief; to do -anything in this room except to lie in bed seemed difficult, and Hubert sat -down on the bed and emptied out his pockets. He had just four pounds, and -the calculation how long he could live on such a sum took him some time. -His breakfast, whether he had it at home or in the coffee-house, would cost -him at least fourpence. He thought he would be able to obtain a fairly good -dinner in one of the little Italian restaurants for ninepence. His tea -would cost the same as his breakfast. To these sums he must add twopence -for tobacco and a penny for an evening paper--impossible to do without -tobacco, and he must know what was going on in the world. He could -therefore live for one shilling and eightpence a day--eleven shillings a -week--to which he would have to add six shillings a week for rent, -altogether seventeen shillings a week. He really did not see how he could -do it cheaper. Four times seventeen are sixty-eight; sixty-eight shillings -for a month of life, and he had eighty shillings--twelve shillings for -incidental expenses; and out of that twelve shillings he must buy a shirt, -a sponge, and a tooth brush, and when they were bought there would be very -little left. He must finish his play under the month. Nothing could be -clearer than that. - -Next morning he asked the landlady to let him have a cup of tea and some -bread and butter, and he ate as much bread as he could, to save himself -from being hungry in the middle of the day. He began work immediately, and -continued until seven, and feeling then somewhat light-headed, but -satisfied with himself, went to the nearest Italian restaurant. The food -was better than he expected; but he spent twopence more than he had -intended, so, to accustom himself to a life of strict measure and -discipline, he determined to forego his tea that evening. And so he lived -and worked until the end of the week. - -But the situation he had counted on to complete his fourth act had proved -almost impracticable in the working out; he laboured on, however, and at -the end of the tenth day at least one scene satisfied him. He read it over -slowly, carefully, thought about it, decided that it was excellent, and lay -down on his bed to consider it. At that moment it struck him that he had -better calculate how much he had spent in the last ten days. He gathered -himself into a sitting posture and counted his money; he had spent thirty -shillings, and at that rate his money would not hold out till the end of -the month. He must reduce his expenditure; but how? Impossible to find a -room where he could live more cheaply than in the one he had got, and it is -not easy to dine in London on less than ninepence. Only the poor can live -cheaply. He pressed his hands to his face. His head seemed like splitting, -and his monetary difficulty, united with his literary difficulties, -produced a momentary insanity. Work that morning was impossible, so he went -out to study the eating-houses of the neighbourhood. He must find one where -he could dine for sixpence. Or he might buy a pound of cooked beef and take -it home with him in a paper bag; but that would seem an almost intolerable -imprisonment in his little room. He could go to a public-house and dine off -a sausage and potato. But at that moment his attention was caught by black -letters on a dun, yellowish ground: 'Lockhart's Cocoa Rooms.' Not having -breakfasted, he decided to have a cup of cocoa and a roll. - -It was a large, barn-like place, the walls covered with a coat of grey-blue -paint. Under the window there was a zinc counter, with zinc urns always -steaming, emiting odours of tea, coffee, and cocoa. The seats were like -those which give a garden-like appearance to the tops of some omnibuses. -Each was made to hold two persons, and the table between them was large -enough for four plates and four pairs of hands. A few hollow-chested men, -the pale vagrants of civilisation, drowsed in the corners. They had been -hunted through the night by the policeman, and had come in for something -hot. Hubert noted the worn frock-coats, and the miserable arms coming out -of shirtless sleeves. One looked up inquiringly, and Hubert thought how -slight had become the line that divided him from the outcast. A -serving-maid collected the plates, knives and forks, when the customers -left, and carried them back to the great zinc counter. - -Impressed by his appearance, she brought him what he had ordered and took -the money for it, although the custom of the place was for the customer to -pay for food at the counter and carry it himself to the table at which he -chose to eat. Hubert learnt that there was no set dinner, but there was a -beef-steak pudding at one, price fourpence, a penny potatoes, a penny -bread. So by dining at Lockhart's he would be able to cut down his daily -expense by at least twopence; that would extend the time to finish his play -by nearly a week. And if his appetite were not keen, he could assuage it -with a penny plum pudding; or he could take a middle course, making his -dinner off a sausage and mashed potatoes. The room was clean, well lighted, -and airy; he could read his paper there, and forget his troubles in the -observation of character. He even made friends. An old wizen creature, who -had been a prize-fighter, told him of his triumphs. If he hadn't broke his -hand on somebody's nose he'd have been champion light-weight of England. -'And to think that I have come to this,' he added emphatically. 'Even them -boys knock me about now, and 'alf a century ago I could 'ave cleared the -bloomin' place.' There was a merry little waif from the circus who loved to -come and sit with Hubert. She had been a rider, she said, but had broken -her leg on one occasion, and cut her head all open on another, and had -ended by running away with some one who had deserted her. 'So here I am,' -she remarked, with a burst of laughter, 'talking to you. Did you never hear -of Dolly Dayrell?' Hubert confessed that he had not. 'Why,' she said, 'I -thought every one had.' - -About eight o'clock in the evening, the table near the stairs was generally -occupied by flower-girls, dressed in dingy clothes, and brightly feathered -hats. They placed their empty baskets on the floor, and shouted at their -companions--men who sold newspapers, boot-laces, and cheap toys. About nine -the boys came in, the boys who used to push the old prize-fighter about, -and Hubert soon began to perceive how representative they were of all -vices--gambling, theft, idleness, and cruelty were visible in their faces. -They were led by a Jew boy who sold penny jewellery at the corner of Oxford -Street, and they generally made for the tables at the end of the room, for -there, unless custom was slack indeed, they could defeat the vigilance of -the serving-maid and play at nap at their ease. The tray of penny jewellery -was placed at the corner of a table, and a small boy set to watch over it. -His duty was also to shuffle his feet when the servant-maid approached, and -a precious drubbing he got if he failed to shuffle them loud enough. The -''ot un,' as he was nicknamed, always had a pack of cards in his pocket, -and to annex everything left on the tables he considered to be his -privilege. One day, when he was asked how he came by the fine carnation in -his buttonhole, he said it was a present from Sally, neglecting to add that -he had told the child to steal it from a basket which a flower-girl had -just put down. - -[Illustration: "'A dirty, hignominious lot, them boys is.'"] - -Hubert hated this boy, and once could not resist boxing his ears. The ''ot -un' writhed easily out of his reach, and then assailed him with foul -language, and so loud were his words that they awoke the innocent cause of -the quarrel, a weak, sickly-looking man, with pale blue eyes and a blonde -beard. Hubert had protected him before now against the brutality of the -boys, who, when they were not playing nap, divided their pleasantries -between him and the decrepit prize-fighter. He came in about nine, took a -cup of coffee from the counter, and settled himself for a snooze. The boys -knew this, and it was their amusement to keep him awake by pelting him with -egg-shells and other missiles. Hubert noticed that he had always with him a -red handkerchief full of some sort of loose rubbish, which the boys -gathered when it fell about the floor, or purloined from the handkerchief -when they judged that the owner was sufficiently fast asleep. Hubert now -saw that the handkerchief was filled with bits of coloured chalk, and -guessed that the man must be a pavement artist. - -'A dirty, hignominious lot, them boys is,' said the artist, fixing his -pale, melancholy eyes on Hubert; 'bad manners, no eddication, and, above -all, no respect.' - -'They are an unmannerly lot--that Jew boy especially. I don't think there's -a vice he hasn't got.' - -The artist stared at Hubert a long time in silence. A thought seemed to be -stirring in his mind. - -'I'm speaking, I can see, to a man of eddication. I'm a fust-rate judge of -character, though I be but a pavement artist; but a picture's none the less -a picture, no matter where it is drawn. That's true, ain't it?' - -'Quite true. A horse is a horse, and an ass is an ass, no matter what -stable you put them into.' - -The artist laughed a guttural laugh, and, fixing his pale blue porcelain -eyes on Hubert, he said-- - -'Yes; see I made no bloomin' error when I said you was a man of eddication. -A literary gent, I should think. In the reporting line, most like. Down in -the luck like myself. What was it--drink? Got the chuck?' - -'No,' said Hubert, 'never touch it. Out of work.' - -'No offence, master, we're all mortal, we is all weak, and in misfortune we -goes to it. It was them boys that drove me to it.' - -'How was that?' - -'They was always round my show; no getting rid of them, and their remarks -created a disturbance; the perlice said he wouldn't 'ave it, and when the -perlice won't 'ave it, what's a poor man to do? They are that hignorant. -But what's the use of talking of it, it only riles me.' The blue-eyed man -lay back in his seat, and his head sank on his chest. He looked as if he -were going to sleep again, but on Hubert's asking him to explain his -troubles, he leaned across the table. - -'Well, I'll tell yer. Yer be an eddicated man, and I likes to talk to them -that 'as 'ad an eddication. Yer says, and werry truly, just now, that -changing the stable don't change an 'orse into a hass, or a hass into an -'orse. That is werry true, most true, none but a eddicated man could 'ave -made that 'ere hobservation. I likes yer for it. Give us yer 'and. The -public just thinks too much of the stable, and not enough of what's inside. -Leastways that's my experience of the public, and I 'ave been a-catering -for the public ever since I was a growing lad--sides of bacon, ships on -fire, good old ship on fire.... I knows the public. Yer don't follow me?' - -'Not quite.' - -'A moment, and I'll explain. You'll admit there's no blooming reason except -the public's blooming hignorance why a man shouldn't do as good a picture -on the pavement as on a piece of canvas, provided he 'ave the blooming -genius. There is no doubt that with them 'ere chalks and a nice smooth -stone that Raphael--I 'ave been to the National Gallery and 'ave studied -'is work, and werry fine some of it is, although I don't altogether -hold--but that's another matter. What was I a-saying of? I remember,--that -with them 'ere chalks, and a nice smooth stone, there's no reason why a -masterpiece shouldn't be done. That's right, ain't it? I ask you, as a man -of eddication, to say if that ain't right; as a representative of the -Press, I asks you to say.' Hubert nodded, and the pale-eyed man continued. -'Well, that's what the public won't see, can't see. Raphael, says I, could -'ave done a masterpiece with them 'ere chalks and a nice smooth stone. But -do yer think 'e 'd 'ave been allowed? Do yer think the perlice would 'ave -stood it? Do yer think the public would 'ave stood him doing masterpieces -on the pavement? I'd give 'im just one afternoon. Them boys would 'ave got -'im into trouble, just as they did me. Raphael would 'ave been told to wipe -them out just as I was.' - -The conversation paused; and, half amused, half frightened, Hubert -considered the pale vague face, and he was struck by the scattered look of -aspiration that wandered in the pale blue eyes. - -'I'll tell you,' said the man, growing more excited, and leaning further -across the table; 'I'll tell you, because I knows you for an eddicated man, -and won't blab. S'pose yer thinks, like the rest of the world, that the -chaps wot smears, for it ain't drawing, the pavement with bits of bacon, a -ship on fire, and the regulation oysters, does them out of their own -'eads?' Hubert nodded. 'I'm not surprised that you do, all the world do, -and the public chucks down its coppers to the poor hartist; but 'e aint no -hartist, no more than is them 'ere boys that did for my show.' Leaning -still further forward, he lowered his voice to a whisper. 'They learns it -all by 'art; there is schools for the teaching of it down in Whitechapel. -They can just do what they learns by 'art, not one of them could draw that -'ere chair or table from natur'; but I could. I 'ave an original talent. It -was a long time afore I found out it was there,' he said, tapping his -forehead; 'but it is there,' he said, fixing his eyes on Hubert, 'and when -it is there they can't take it away--I mean my mates--though they do laugh -at my ideas. They call me "the genius," for they don't believe in me, but I -believe in myself, and they laughs best that laughs last.... I don't know,' -he said, looking round him, his eyes full of reverie, 'that the public -liked my fancy landscapes better than the ship on fire, but I said the -public will come to them in time, and I continued my fancy landscapes. But -one day in Trafalgar Square it came on to rain very 'eavy, and I went for -shelter into the National Gallery. It was my fust visit, and I was struck -all of a 'eap, and ever since I can 'ardly bring myself to go on with the -drudgery of the piece of bacon, and the piece of cheese, with the mouse -nibbling at it. And ever since my 'ead 'as been filled with other things, -though for a long time I could not make exactly out what. I 'ave 'eard that -that is always the case with men that 'as an idea--daresay you 'ave found -it so yourself. So in my spare time I goes to the National to think it out, -and in studying the pictures there I got wery interested in a chap called -Hetty, and 'e do paint the female form divine. I says to myself, Why not go -in for lovely woman? the public may not care for fancy landscapes, but the -public allus likes a lovely woman, and, as well as being popular, lovely -woman is 'igh 'art. So, after dinner hour, I sets to work, and sketches in -a blue sea with three bathers, and two boxes, with the 'orse's head looking -out from behind one of the boxes. For a fust attempt at the nude, I assure -you--it ain't my way to blow my own trumpet, but I can say that the crowd -that 'ere picture did draw was bigger than any that 'ad assembled about the -bits o' bacon and ship-a-fire of all the other coves. 'Ad I been let alone, -I should 'ave made my fortune, but the crowd was so big and the curiosity -so great that it took the perlice all their time to keep the pavement from -being blocked. It wasn't that the public didn't like it enough, it was that -the public liked it too much, that was the reason of my misfortune.' - -'What do you mean?' said Hubert. - -'Well, yer see them boys was a-hawking their cheap toys in the -neighbourhood, and when they got wind of my success they comes round to -see, and they remains on account of the crowd. Pockets was picked, I don't -say they wasn't, and the perlice turned rusty, and then a pious old gent -comes along, and 'earing the remarks of them boys, which I admit wasn't -nice, complains to the hauthorities, and I was put down! Now, what I wants -to know is why my art should be made to suffer for the beastly-mindedness -of them 'ere boys.' - -Hubert admitted that there seemed to be an injustice somewhere, and asked -the artist if he had never tried again. - -'Try again? Should think I did. When once a man 'as tasted of 'igh art, he -can't keep his blooming fingers out of it. It was impossible after the -success of my bathers to go back to the bacon, so I thought I would -circumvent the hauthorities. I goes to the National Gallery, makes a -sketch, 'ere it is,' and after some fumbling in his breast pocket, he -produced a greasy piece of paper, which he handed to Hubert. 'S'pose yer -know the picture?' Hubert admitted that he did not. 'Well, that is a -drawing from Gainsborough's celebrated picture of Medora a-washing of her -feet.... But the perlice wouldn't 'ave it any more than my original, 'e -said it was worse than the bathers at Margaret, and when I told the -hignorant brute wot it was, 'e said he wanted no hargument, that 'e -wouldn't 'ave it.' - -Hubert had noticed, during the latter part of the narrative, a look of -dubious cunning twinkling in the pale eyes; but now this look died away, -and the eyes resumed their habitual look of vague reverie. - -'I've been 'ad up before the Beak: from him I expected more enlightenment, -but he, too, said 'e wouldn't 'ave it, and I got a month. But I'll beat -them yet, the public is on my side, and if it worn't for them 'ere boys, -I'd say that the public could be helevated. They calls me "the genius," and -they is right.' Then something seemed to go out like a flame, the face grew -dim, and changed expression. 'It is 'ere all right,' he said, no longer -addressing Hubert, but speaking to himself, 'and since it is there, it must -come out.' - - - - -IV - - -Hubert at last found himself obliged to write to Ford for an advance of -money. But Ford replied that he would advance money only on the delivery of -the completed manuscript. And the whole of one night, in a room hardly -eight feet long, sitting on his bed, he strove to complete the fourth and -fifth acts. But under the pressure of such necessity ideas died within him. -And all through the night, and even when the little window, curtained with -a bit of muslin hardly bigger than a pocket-handkerchief, had grown white -with dawn, he sat gazing at the sheet of paper, his brain on fire, unable -to think. Laying his pen down in despair, he thought of the thousands who -would come to his aid if they only knew--if they only knew! And soon after -he heard life beginning again in the little brick street. He felt that his -brain was giving way, that if he did not find change, whatever it was, he -must surely run raving mad. He had had enough of England, and would leave -it for America, Australia--anywhere. He wanted change. The present was -unendurable. How would he get to America? Perhaps a clerkship on board one -of the great steamships might be obtained. - -The human animal in extreme misery becomes self-reliant, and Hubert hardly -thought of making application to his uncle. The last time he had applied -for help his letter had remained unanswered, and he now felt that he must -make his own living or die. And, quite indifferent as to what might befall -him, he walked next day to the Victoria Docks. He did not know where or how -to apply for work, and he tired himself in fruitless endeavour. At last he -felt he could strive with fate no longer, and wandered mile after mile, -amused and forgetful of his own misery in the spectacle of the river--the -rose sky, the long perspectives, the houses and warehouses showing in fine -outline, and then the wonderful blue night gathering in the forest of masts -and rigging. He was admirably patient. There was no fretfulness in his -soul, nor did he rail against the world's injustice, but took his -misfortunes with sweet gentleness. - -He slept in a public-house, and next day resumed his idle search for -employment. The weather was mild and beautiful, his wants were simple, a -cup of coffee and a roll, a couple of sausages, and the day passed in a -sort of morose and passionless contemplation. He thought of everything and -nothing, least of all of how he should find money for the morrow. When the -day came, and the penny to buy a cup of coffee was wanting, he quite -naturally, without giving it a second thought, engaged himself as a -labourer, and worked all day carrying sacks of grain out of a vessel's -hold. For a large part of his nature was patient and simple, docile as an -animal's. There was in him so much that was rudimentary, that in accepting -this burden of physical toil he was acting not in contradiction to, but in -full and perfect harmony with, his true nature. - -But at the end of a week his health began to give way, and, like a man -after a violent debauch, he thought of returning to a more normal -existence. He had left the manuscript of his unfortunate play in the North. -Had they destroyed it? The involuntary fear of the writer for his child -made him smile. What did it matter? Clearly the first thing to do would be -to write to the editor of _The Cosmopolitan_, and ask if he could find him -some employment, something certain; writing occasional articles for -newspapers, that he couldn't do. - -Hubert had saved twelve shillings. He would therefore be able to pay his -landlady: he smiled--one of his landladies! The earlier debt was now -hopelessly out of his reach, and seemed to represent a social plane from -which he had for ever fallen. If he had succeeded in getting that play -right, what a difference it would have made! He would have been able to do -a number of things he had never done, things which he had always desired to -do. He had desired above all to travel--to see France and Italy; to linger, -to muse in the shadows of the world's past; and after this he had desired -marriage, an English wife, an English home, beautiful children, leisure, -the society of friends. A successful play would have given him all these -things, and now his dream must remain for ever unrealised by him. He had -sunk out of sight and hearing of such life. - -Rose was another; she might sink as he had sunk; she might never find the -opportunity of realising her desire. How well she would have played that -part! He knew what was in her. And now! What did his failure to write that -play condemn him to? Heaven only knows, he did not wish to think. Strange, -was it not strange?... A man of genius--many believed him a genius--and yet -he was incapable of earning his daily bread otherwise than by doing the -work of a navvy. Even that he could not do well, society had softened his -muscles and effeminised his constitution. Indeed, he did not know what life -fate had willed him for. He seemed to be out of place everywhere. His best -chance was to try to obtain a clerkship. The editor of _The Cosmopolitan_ -might be able to do that for him; if he could not, far better it would be -to leave a world in which he was _out of place_, and through no fault of -his own--that was the hard part of it. Hard part! Nonsense! What does Fate -know of our little rights and wrongs--or care? Her intentions are -inscrutable; she watches us come and go, and gives no sign. Prayers are -vain. The good man is punished, and the wicked is sent on his way -rejoicing. - -In such mournful thought, his clothes stained and torn, with all the traces -of a week's toil in the docks upon them, Hubert made his way round St. -Paul's and across Holborn. As he was about to cross into Oxford Street, he -heard some one accost him,-- - -'Oh, Mr. Price, is that you?' It was Rose. 'Where have you been all this -time?' - -She seemed so strange, so small, and so much alone in the great -thoroughfare, that Hubert forgot all his own troubles in a sudden interest -in this little mite. 'Where have you been hiding yourself?... It is lucky I -met you. Don't you know that Ford has decided to revive _Divorce_?' - -'You don't mean it!' - -'Yes; Ford said that the last acts of _The Gipsy_ were not satisfactorily -worked out, and as there was something wrong with that Hamilton Brown's -piece, he has decided to revive _Divorce_. He says it never was properly -played ... he thinks he'll make a hit in the husband's part, and I daresay -he will. But I have been unfortunate again; I wanted the part of the -adventuress. I really could play it. I don't look it, I know ... I have no -weight, but I could play it for all that. The public mightn't see me in it -at first, but in five minutes they would.' - -'And what part has he cast you for--the young girl?' - -'Of course; there's no other part. He says I look it; but what's the good -of looking it when you don't feel it? If he had cast me for Mrs. -Barrington, I should have had just the five minutes in the second act that -I have been waiting for so long, and I should have just wiped Miss Osborne -out, acted her off the stage.... I know I should; you needn't believe it if -don't like, but I know I should.' - -Hubert wondered how any one could feel so sure of herself, and then he -said, 'Yes, I think you could do just what you say.... How do you think -Miss Osborne will play the part?' - -'She'll be correct enough; she'll miss nothing, and yet somehow she'll miss -the whole thing. But you must go at once to Ford. He was saying only this -morning that if you didn't turn up soon, he'd have to give up the idea.' - -'I can't go and see him to-night. You see what a state I'm in.' - -'You're rather dusty; where have you been? what have you been doing?' - -'I've been down at the dock.... I thought of going to America.' - -'Well, we'll talk about that another time. It doesn't matter if you are a -bit dusty and worn-out-looking. Now that he's going to revive your play, -he'll let you have some money. You might get a new hat, though. I don't -know how much they cost, but I've five shillings; can you get one for -that?' - -Hubert thanked her. - -'But you are not offended?' - -'Offended, my dear Rose! I shall be able to manage. I'll get a brush up -somewhere.' - -'That's all right. Now I'm going to jump into that 'bus,' and she signed -with her parasol to the conductor. 'Mind you see Ford to-night,' she cried; -and a moment after he saw a small space of blue back seated against one of -the windows. - - - - -V - - -There was much prophecy abroad. Stiggins' words, 'The piece never did, and -never will draw money,' were evidently present in everybody's mind. They -were visible in Ford's face, and more than once Hubert expected to hear -that--on account of severe indisposition--Mr. Montague Ford has been -obliged to indefinitely postpone his contemplated revival of Mr. Hubert -Price's play _Divorce_. But, besides the apprehension that Stiggins' -unfavourable opinion of his enterprise had engendered in him, Ford was -obviously provoked by Hubert's reluctance to execute the alterations he had -suggested. Night after night, sometimes until six in the morning, Hubert -sat up considering them. Thanks to Ford's timely advance he was back in his -old rooms in Fitzroy Street. All was as it had been. He was working at his -play every evening, waiting for Rose's footsteps on the stairs. And yet a -change had come into his life! He believed now that his feet were set on -the way to fortune--that he would soon be happy. - -He stared at the bright flame of the lamp, he listened to the silence. The -clock chimed sharply, and the windows were growing grey. Hubert had begun -to drowse in his chair; but he had promised to rewrite the young girl's -part, Ford having definitely refused to intrust Rose with the part of the -adventuress. He was sorry for this. He believed that Rose had not only -talent, but genius. Besides, they were friends, neighbours; he would like -to give her a chance of distinguishing herself--the chance which she was -seeking. All the time he could not but realise that, however he might -accentuate and characterise the part of the sentimental girl, Rose would -not be able to do much with it. To bring out her special powers something -strange, wild, or tragic was required. But of what use thinking of what was -not to be? Having made some alterations and additions he folded his papers -up, and addressed them to Miss Massey. He wrote on a piece of paper that -they were to be given to her at once, and that he was to be called at ten. -There was a rehearsal at twelve. - -On the night of the first performance, Hubert asked Rose to dine in his -rooms. Mr. Wilson proposed that they should have a roast chicken, and Annie -was sent to fetch a bottle of champagne from the grocer's. Annie had been -given a ticket for the pit. Mrs. Wilson was going to the upper boxes. Annie -said,-- - -'Why, you look as if you was going to a funeral, and not to a play. Why -don't ye laugh?' - -In truth, Hubert and Rose were a little silent. Rose was thinking how she -could say certain lines. She had said them right once at rehearsal, but had -not since been able to reproduce to her satisfaction a certain effect of -voice. Hubert was too nervous to talk. There was nothing in his mind but -'Will the piece succeed? What shall I do if it fails?' He could give heed -to nothing but himself, all the world seemed blotted out, and he suffered -the pain of excessive self-concentration. Rose, on the other hand, had lost -sight of herself, and existed almost unconsciously in the soul of another -being. She was sometimes like a hypnotised spectator watching with foolish, -involuntary curiosity the actions of one whom she had been bidden to watch. -Then a little cloud would gather over her eyes, and then this other being -would rise as if out of her very entrails and recreate her, fashioning her -to its own image and likeness. - -She did not answer when she was spoken to, and when the question was -repeated, she awoke with a little start. Dinner was eaten in morbid -silence, with painful and fitful efforts to appear interested in each -other. Walking to the theatre, they once took the wrong turning and had to -ask the way. At the stage door they smiled painfully, nodded, glad to part. -Hubert went up to Montague Ford's room. He found the comedian on a low -stool, seated before a low table covered with brushes and cosmetics, in -front of a triple glass. - -'My dear friend, do not trouble me now. I am thinking of my part.' - -Hubert turned to go. - -'Stay a moment,' cried the actor. 'You know when the husband meets the wife -he has divorced?' - -Hubert remembered the moment referred to, and, with anxious, doubting eyes, -the comedian sought from the author justification for some intonations and -gestures which seemed to him to form part and parcel of the nature of the -man whose drunkenness he had so admirably depicted on his face. - -'"_This is most unfortunate, very unlucky--very, my dear Louisa; but----_" - -'"_I am no longer obliged to bear with your insults; I can now defend -myself against you._" - -[Illustration: "In the third row Harding stood talking to a young man."] - -'Now, is that your idea of the scene?' - -A pained look came upon Hubert's face. 'Don't question me now, my dear -fellow. I cannot fix my attention. I can see, however, that your make-up is -capital--you are the man himself.' - -The actor was satisfied, and in his satisfaction he said, 'I think it will -be all right, old chap.' - -Hubert hoped to reach his box without meeting critics or authors. The -serving-maids bowed and smiled,--he was the author of the play. 'They'll -think still more of me if the notices are right,' he thought, as he hurried -upstairs, and from behind the curtain of his box he peeped down and counted -the critics who edged their way down the stalls. Harding stood in the third -row talking to a young man. He said, 'You mean the woman with the black -hair piled into a point, and fastened with a steel circlet. A face of -sheep-like sensuality. Red lips and a round receding chin. A large bosom, -and two thin arms showing beneath the opera cloak, which she has not yet -thrown from her shoulders. I do not know her--_une laideur attirante_. Many -a man might be interested in her. But do you see the woman in the -stage-box? You would not believe it, but she is sixty, and has only just -begun to speak of herself as an old woman. She kept her figure, and had an -admirer when she was fifty-eight.' - -'What has become of him?' - -'They quarrelled; two years ago he told her he hoped never to see her ugly -old face again. And that delicate little creature in the box next to -her--that pale diaphanous face?' - -'With a young man hanging over her whispering in her ear?' - -'Yes. She hates the theatre; it gives her neuralgia; but she attends all -the first nights because her one passion is to be made love to in public. -If her admirer did not hang over her in front of the box just as that man -is doing, she would not tolerate him for a week.' - -At that moment the conversation was interrupted by a new-comer, who asked -if he had seen the play when it was first produced. - -'Yes,' said Harding; 'I did.' And he continued his search for acquaintances -amid white rows of female backs, necks, and half-seen profiles--amid the -black cloth shoulders cut sharply upon the illumined curtain. - -'And what do you think of it? Do you think it will succeed this time?' - -'Ford will create an impression in the part; but I don't think the piece -will run.' - -'And why? Because the public is too stupid?' - -'Partly, and partly because Price is only an intentionist. He cannot carry -an idea quite through.' - -'Are you going to write about it?' - -'I may.' - -'And what will you say?' - -'Oh, most interesting things to be said. Let's take the case of Hubert -Price ... Ah, there, the curtain is going up.' - -The curtain rolled slowly up, and in a small country drawing-room, in very -simple but very pointedly written dialogue, the story of Mrs. Holmes' -domestic misfortunes was gradually unfolded. It appeared that she had -flirted with Captain Grey; he had written her some compromising letters, -and she had once been to his rooms alone. So the Court had pronounced a -decree _nisi_. But Mrs. Holmes had not been unfaithful to her husband. She -had flirted with Captain Grey because her husband's attentions to a certain -Mrs. Barrington had maddened her, and in her jealous rage had written -foolish letters, and been to see Captain Grey. - -Hubert noticed that folk were still asking for their seats, and pushing -down the very rows in which the most influential critics were sitting. They -exchanged a salutation with their friends in the dress-circle, and, when -they were seated, looked around, making observations regarding the -appearance of the house; and all the while the actors were speaking. Hubert -trembled with fear and rage. Would these people never give their attention -to the stage? If they had been sitting by him, he could have struck them. -Then a line turned into nonsense by the actress who played Mrs. Holmes was -a lancinating pain; and the actor who played Captain Grey, played so slowly -that Hubert could hardly refrain from calling from his box. He looked round -the theatre, noticing the indifferent faces of the critics, and the women's -shoulders seemed to him especially vacuous and imbecile. - -The principal scene of the second act was between Mrs. Holmes and the man -who had divorced her. He has-been driven to drink by the vile behaviour of -his second wife; he is ruined in health and in pocket, and has come to the -woman he wronged to beg forgiveness; he knows she has learnt to love -Captain Grey, but will not marry him, because she believes that once -married always married. There is only one thing he can do to repair the -wrong he has done--he will commit suicide, and so enable her to marry the -man she loves. He tells her that he has bought the pistol to do it with, -and the words, 'Not here! not here!' escape from her; and he answers, 'No, -not here, but in a cab. I've got one at the door.' He goes out; Captain -Grey enters, and Mrs. Holmes begs him to save her husband. While they are -discussing how this is to be done, he re-enters, saying that his conscience -smote him as he was going to pull the trigger. Will she forgive him? If she -won't, he must make an end of himself. She says she will. - -In the third act Hubert had attempted to paint Mr. Holmes' vain efforts to -reform his life. But the constant presence of Captain Grey in the -household, his attempts to win Mrs. Holmes from her husband, and the -drunken husband's amours with the servant-maid disgusted rather than -horrified. In the fourth act the wretched husband admits that his -reformation is impossible, and that, although he has no courage to commit -suicide and set his wife free, he will return to his evil courses; they -will sooner or later make an end of him. The slowness and deadly gravity -with which Ford took this scene rendered it intolerable; and, -notwithstanding the beauty of the conclusion, when the deserted wife, in -the silence of her drawing-room, reads again Captain Grey's letter, telling -her that he has left England for ever, and with another, the success of the -play was left in doubt, and the audience filed out, talking, chattering, -arguing, wondering what the public verdict would be. - -To avoid commiseration of heartless friends and the triumphant glances of -literary enemies, Hubert passed through the door leading on to the stage. -Scene-shifters were brutally pushing away what remained of his play; and -the presence of Hamilton Brown, the dramatic author, talking to Ford, was -at that moment particularly disagreeable. On catching sight of Hubert, -Brown ran to him, shook him by the hand, and murmured some discreet -congratulations. He preferred the piece, however, as it had been originally -written, and suggested to Ford the advisability of returning to the first -text. Then Ford went upstairs to take his paint off, and Hubert walked -about the stage with Brown. Brown's insincerity was sufficiently -transparent; but men in Hubert's position catch at straws, and he soon -began to believe that the attitude of the public towards his play was not -so unfavourable as he had imagined. - -Hubert tried to summon up a smile for the stage-door keeper, who, he -feared, had heard that the piece had failed, and then the moment they got -outside he begged Rose to tell him the exact truth. She assured him that -Ford had said that he had always counted on a certain amount of opposition; -but that he believed that the general public, being more free of prejudice -and less sophisticated, would be impressed by the simple humanity of the -play. The conversation paused, and at the end of an irritating silence he -said, 'You were excellent, as good as any one could be in a part that did -not suit them. Ah, if he had cast you for the adventuress, how you would -have played it!...' - -'I'm so glad you are pleased. I hope my notices will be good. Do you think -they will?' - -'Yes, your notices will be all right,' he answered, with a sigh. - -'And your notices will be all right too. No one can say what is going to -succeed. There was a call after each of the last three acts.... I don't see -how a piece could go better. It is the suspense....' - -'Ah, yes, the suspense!' - -They lingered on the landing, and Hubert said, 'Won't you come in for a -moment?' She followed him into the room. His calm face, usually a perfect -picture of repose and self-possession, betrayed his emotion by a certain -blankness in the eyes, certain contractions in the skin of the forehead. -'I'm afraid,' he said, 'there's no hope.' - -'Oh, you mustn't say that!' she replied. 'I think it went very well -indeed.... I know I did nothing with the young girl. I oughtn't to have -undertaken the part.' - -'You were excellent. If we only get some good notices. If we don't, I shall -never get another play of mine acted.' He looked at her imploringly, -thirsting for a woman's sympathy. But the little girl was thinking of -certain effects which she would have made, and which the actress who had -played the adventuress had failed to make. - -'I watched her all the time,' she said, 'following every line, saying all -the time, "Oh yes, that's all very nice and very proper, my young woman; -but it's not it; no, not at all--not within a hundred miles of it." I don't -think she ever really touched the part--do you?' Hubert did not answer, and -a quiver of distraction ran through the muscles of her face. - -'Why don't you answer me?' - -'I can't answer you,' he said abruptly. Then remembering, he added, -'Forgive me; I can think of nothing now.' He hid his face in his hands, and -sobbed twice--two heavy, choking sobs, pregnant with the weight of anguish -lying on his heart. - -Seeing how much he suffered, she laid her hand on his shoulder. 'I am very -sorry; I wish I could help you. I know how it tears the heart when one -cannot get out what one has in one's brain.' - -Her artistic appreciation of his suffering only jarred him the more. What -he longed for was some kind, simple-hearted woman who would say, 'Never -mind, dear; the play was perfectly right, only they did not understand it; -I love you better than ever.' But Rose could not give him the sympathy he -wanted; and to be alone was almost a relief. He dared not go to bed; he sat -looking into space. The roar of London hushed till it was no more than a -faint murmur, the hissing of the gas grew louder, and still Hubert sat -thinking, the same thoughts battling in his brain. He looked into the -future, but could see nothing but suicide. His uncle? He had applied to him -before for help; there was no hope there. Then he tramped up and down, -maddened by the infernal hissing of the gas; and then threw himself into -his arm-chair. And so a terrible night wore away; and it was not until long -after the early carts had begun to rattle in the streets that exhaustion -brought an end to his sufferings, and he rolled into bed. - - - - -VI - - -'What will ye 'ave to eat? Eggs and bacon?' - -'No, no!' - -'Well, then, 'ave a chop?' - -'No, no!' - -'Ye must 'ave something.' - -'A cup of tea, a slice of toast. I'm not hungry.' - -'Well, ye are worse than a young lady for a happetite. Miss Massey 'as sent -you down these 'ere papers.' - -The servant-girl laid the papers on the bed, and Hubert lay back on his -pillow, so that he might collect his thoughts. Stretching forth his hands, -he selected the inevitable paper. - -'For those who do not believe that our English home life is composed -mainly, if not entirely, of lying, drunkenness, and conjugal infidelity, -and its sequel divorce, yester evening at the Queen's Theatre must have -been a sad and dismal experience. That men and women who have vowed to love -each other do sometimes prove false to their troth no reasonable man will -deny. With the divorce court before our eyes, even the most enthusiastic -believer in the natural goodness and ultimate perfectibility of human -nature must admit that men and women are frail. But drunkenness and -infidelity are happily not characteristic of our English homes. Then why, -we ask, should a dramatist select such a theme, and by every artifice of -dialogue force into prominence all that is mean and painful in an -unfortunate woman's life? Always the same relentless method; the cold, -passionless curiosity of the vivisector; the scalpel is placed under the -nerve, and we are called upon to watch the quivering flesh. Never the kind -word, the tears, the effusion, which is man's highest prerogative, and -which separates him from the brute and signifies the immortal end for which -he was created. We hold that it is a pity to see so much talent wasted, and -it was indeed a melancholy sight to see so many capable actors and -actresses labouring to----' - -'This is even worse than usual,' said Hubert; and glancing through half a -column of hysterical commonplace, he came upon the following:-- - -'But if this woman had succeeded in reclaiming from vice the man who -unjustly divorced her, and who in his misery goes back to ask her -forgiveness for pity's sake, what a lesson we should have had! And, with -lightened and not with heavier hearts, we should have left the theatre -comforted, better and happier men and women. But turning his back on the -goodness, truth, and love whither he had induced us to believe he was -leading us, the author flagrantly makes the woman contradict her whole -nature in the last act; and, because her husband falls again, she, instead -of raising him with all the tender mercies and humanities of wifehood, -declares that her life has been one long mistake, and that she accepts the -divorce which the Court had unjustly granted. The moral, if such a word may -be applied to such a piece is this: "The law may be bad, but human nature -is worse."' - -The other morning papers took the same view,--a great deal of talent wasted -on a subject that could please no one. Hubert threw the papers aside, lay -back, and in the lucid idleness of the bed his thoughts grew darker. It was -hardly possible that the piece could survive such notices; and if it did -not? Well, he would have to go. But until the piece was taken out of the -bills it would be a weakness to harbour the ugly thought. - -There were, however, the evening papers to look forward to, and soon after -midday Annie was sent to buy all that had appeared. Hubert expected to find -in these papers a more delicate appreciation of his work. Many of the -critics of the evening press were his personal friends, and nearly all were -young men in full sympathy with the new school of dramatic thought. He read -paper after paper with avidity; and Annie was sent in a cab to buy one that -had not yet found its way so far north as Fitzroy Street. The opinion of -this paper was of all importance, and Hubert tore it open with trembling -fingers. Although more temperately written than the others, it was clearly -favourable, and Hubert sighed a sweet sigh of relief. A weight was lifted -from him; the world suddenly seemed to grow brighter; and he went to the -theatre that evening, and, half doubting and half confidently, presented -himself at the door of Montague Ford's dressing-room. The actor had not yet -begun to dress, and was busy writing letters. He stretched his hand -hurriedly to Hubert. - -'Excuse me, my dear fellow; I have a couple of letters to finish.' - -Hubert sat down, glancing nervously from the actor to the morning papers -with which the table was strewn. There was not an evening paper there. Had -he not seen them? At the end of about ten minutes the actor said,-- - -'Well, this is a bad business; they are terribly down on us--aren't they? -What do you think?' - -'Have you seen the evening papers--_The Telephone_, for instance?' - -'Oh yes, I've seen them all; but the evening papers don't amount to much. -Stiggins's article was terrible. I am afraid he has killed the piece.' - -'Don't you think it will run, then?' - -'Well, that depends upon the public, of course. If they like it, I'll keep -it on.' - -'How's the booking?' - -'Not good.' Montague Ford moved his papers absent-mindedly. At the end of a -long silence he said, 'Even if the piece did catch on, it would take a lot -of working up to undo the mischief of those articles. Of course you can -rely on me to give it every chance. I shan't take it out of the bills if I -can possibly help.' - -'There is my _Gipsy_.' - -'I have another piece ready to put into rehearsal; it was arranged for six -months ago. I only consented to produce your play because--well, because -there has been such an outcry lately about art.... Tremendous part for me -in the new piece... I'm sure you'll like it.' - -The business did improve, but so very slowly that Hubert was afraid Ford -would lose patience and take the play out of the bills. But while the fate -of the play hung in the balance, Hubert's life was being rendered -unbearable by duns. They had found him out, one and all; to escape being -served was an impossibility; and now his table was covered with summonses -to appear at the County Court. This would not matter if the piece once took -the public taste. Then he would be able to pay every one, and have some -time to rest and think. And there seemed every prospect of its catching on. -Discussions regarding the morality of the play had arisen in the -newspapers, and the eternal question whether men and women are happier -married or unmarried had reached its height. Hubert spent the afternoon -addressing letters to the papers, striving to fan the flame of controversy. -Every evening he listened for Rose's footstep on the stairs.--How did the -piece go?--Was there a better house? Money or paper?--Have you seen the -notice in the ----?--First-rate, wasn't it?--That ought to do some -good.--I've heard there was a notice in the ----, but I haven't seen it. -Have you?--No; but So-and-so saw the paper, and said there was nothing in -it. And, do you know, I hear there's going to be a notice in _The Modern -Review_, and that So-and-so is writing it. - -Every post brought newspapers; the room was filled with newspapers--all -kinds of newspapers--papers one has never heard of,--French papers, Welsh -papers, North of England papers, Scotch and Irish papers. Hubert read -columns about himself, anecdotes of all kinds,--where he was born, who were -his parents, and what first induced him to attempt writing for the stage; -his personal appearance, mode of life, the cut of his clothes; his -religious, moral, and political views. Had he been the plaintiff in an -action for criminal libel, greater industry in the collection and the -fabrication of personal details could hardly have been displayed. - -But at these articles Hubert only glanced; he was interested in his piece, -not in himself, and when Annie brought up _The Modern Review_ he tore it -open, knowing he would find there criticism more fundamental, more -searching. But as he read, the expression of hope which his face wore -changed to one of pain pitiful to look upon. The article began with a -sketch of the general situation, and in a tone of commiseration, of -benevolent malice, the writer pointed out how inevitable it was that the -critics should have taken Mr. Price, when _Divorce_ was first produced, for -the new dramatic genius they were waiting for. 'There comes a moment,' said -this caustic writer, 'in the affairs of men when the new is not only -eagerly accepted, but when it is confounded with the original. Wearied by -the old stereotyped form of drama, the critics had been astonished by a -novelty of subject, more apparent than real, and by certain surface -qualities in the execution; they had hailed the work as being original both -in form and in matter, whereas all that was good in the play had been -borrowed from France and Scandinavia. _Divorce_ was the inevitable product -of the time. It had been written by Mr. Price, but it might have been -written by a dozen other young men--granting intelligence, youth, leisure, -a university education, and three or four years of London life--any one of -a dozen clever young men who frequent West End drawing-rooms and dabble in -literature might have written it. All that could be said was that the play -was, or rather had been, _dans le mouvement_; and original work never is -_dans le mouvement_. _Divorce_ was nothing more than the product of certain -surroundings, and remembering Mr. Price's other plays, there seemed to be -no reason to believe that he would do better. Mr. Price had tried his hand -at criticism, and that was a sure sign that the creative faculty had begun -to wither. His critical essays were not rich nor abundant in thought, they -were not the skirmishing of a man fighting for his ideas, they were not -preliminary to a great battle; they were at once vague and pedantic, -somewhat futile, _les ébats d'un esprit en peine_, and seemed to announce -a talent in progress of disintegration rather than of reconstruction. - -'Sometimes the critic's phrases seemed wet with tears; sometimes, -abandoning his tone of commiseration, he would assume one of scientific -indifference. The phenomenon was the commonest. There were dozens of Hubert -Prices in London. The universities and the newspapers, working singly and -in collaboration, turned them out by the dozen. And the mission of these -men of intelligent culture seemed to be to _poser des lapins sur la jeune -presse_. Each one came in turn with his little volume of poems, his little -play, his little picture; all were men of "advanced ideas"; in other words, -they were all _dans le mouvement_. There was the rough Hubert Price, who -made mild consternation in the drawing-room, and there was the -sophisticated Hubert Price, who cajoled the drawing-room; there was the -sincere and the insincere, and the Price that suffered and the Price that -didn't. Each one brought a different _nuance_, a thousand infinitesimal -variations of the type, but, considered merely in its relation to art, the -species may be said to be divided into two distinct categories. In the -first category are those who rise almost at the first bound to a certain -level, who produce quickly, never reaching again the original standard, -dropping a little lower at each successive effort until their work becomes -indistinguishable from the ordinary artistic commercialism of the time. The -fate of those in the second category is more pathetic; they gradually -wither and die away like flowers planted in a thin soil. Among these men -many noble souls are to be found, men who have surrendered all things for -love of their art, and who seemed at starting to be the best equipped to -win, but who failed, impossible to tell how or why. Sometimes their failure -turns to comedy, sometimes to tragedy. They may become refined, delicate, -elderly bachelors, the ornaments of drawing-rooms, professional -diners-out--men with brilliant careers behind them. But if fate has not -willed that they should retire into brilliant shells; if chance does not -allow them to retreat, to separate themselves from their kind, but -arbitrarily joins them to others, linking their fate to the fate of others' -unhappiness, disaster may and must accrue from the alliance; honesty of -purpose, trueness of heart, deep love, every great, good, and gracious -quality to be found in nature, will not suffice to save them.' - -The paper dropped from his hands, and he recollected all his failures. - -'Once I could do good work; now I can do neither good work nor bad. Were I -a rich man, I should collect my scattered papers and write songs to be sung -in drawing-rooms; but being a poor one, I must--I suppose I must get out. -Positively, there is no hope,--debts on every side. Fate has willed me to -go as went Haydon, Gerard de Nerval, and Maréchal. The first cut his -throat, the second hanged himself, and the third blew out his brains. -Clearly the time has come to consider how I shall make my exit. It is a -little startling to be called upon so peremptorily to go.' - -In this moment of extreme dejection it seemed to Hubert that the writer of -the article had told him the exact truth. He refused to admit the plea of -poverty. It was of course hard to write when one is being harassed by -creditors. But if he had had it in him, it would have come out. The critic -had very probably told him the truth. He could not hope to make a living -out of literature. He had not the strength to write the masterpiece which -the perverse cruelty of nature had permitted him only to see, and he was -hopelessly unfit for journalism. But in his simple, wholesome mind there -was no bent towards suicide; and he scanned every horizon. Once again he -thought of his uncle. Five years ago he had written, asking him for the -loan of a hundred pounds. He had received ten. And how vain it would be to -write a second time! A few pounds would only serve to prolong his misery. -No; he would not drift from degradation to degradation. - -He only glanced at the letter which Annie had brought up with the copy of -_The Modern Review_. It was clearly a lawyer's letter. Should he open it? -Why not spare himself the pain? He could alter nothing; and in these last -days---- Leaving the thought unfinished, he sought for his keys; he went to -his box, unlocked it, and took out a small paper package. Of the fifty -pounds he had received from Ford about twenty remained: he had been poorer -before, but hardly quite so hopeless. He scanned every horizon--all were -barred. The thought of suicide, and with it the instinctive shrinking from -it, came into his mind again. Suppose he took, that very night, an overdose -of chloral? He tried to put the thought from him, and returned, a little -dazed and helpless, to his chair. Had the critic in _The Modern Review_ -told him the truth? Was he incapable of earning a living? It seemed so. -Above all, was he incapable of finishing _The Gipsy_ as he intended? No; -that he felt was a lie. Give him six months' quiet, free from worry and all -anxiety, and he would do it. Many a year had passed since he had enjoyed a -month of quiet; and glancing again at the letter on the table, he thought -that perhaps at that very moment a score of gallery boys were hissing his -play. Perhaps at that very moment Ford was making up his mind to announce -the last six nights of _Divorce_. At a quarter to twelve he heard Rose's -foot on the stairs. He opened the door. - -'How did the piece go to-night?' - -'Pretty well.' - -'Only pretty well? Won't you come in for a few minutes?... So the piece -didn't go very well to-night?' - -'Oh yes, it did. I've seen it go better; but----' - -'Did you get a call?' - -'Yes, after the second act.' - -'Not after the third?' - -'No. That act never goes well. Harding came behind; I was speaking to him, -and he said something which struck me as being very true. Ford, he said, -plays the part a great deal too seriously. When the piece was first -produced, it was played more good-humouredly by indifferent actors, who let -the thing run without trying to bring out every point. Ford makes it as -hard as nails. I think those were his exact words.' - -Hubert did not answer. At the end of a long silence he said,-- - -'Did you hear anything about the last night's?' - -'No,' she said; 'I heard nothing of that.' - -'Ford appeared quite satisfied then?' - -'Yes, quite,' she answered, with difficulty; for his eyes were fixed on -her, and she felt he knew she was not telling the truth. The conversation -paused again, and to turn it into another channel she said, 'Why, you have -not opened your letter!' - -'I can see it is a lawyer's letter, on account of some unpaid bill. If I -could pay it, I would; but as I can't----' - -'You are afraid to open it,' said Rose. - -Ashamed of his weakness, Hubert opened the letter, and began to read. Rose -saw that the letter was not such an one as he had expected, and a moment -after his face told her that fortunate news had come to him. The signs of -the tumult within were represented by the passing of the hand across the -brow, as if to brush aside some strange hallucination, and the sudden -coming of a vague look of surprise and fear into the eyes. He said,-- - -'Read it! Read it!' - -Relieved of much detail and much cumbersome legal circumlocution, it was to -the following effect:--That about three months ago Mr. Burnett had come up -from his place in Sussex, and at the offices of Messrs. Grandly & Co. had -made a will, in which he had disinherited his adopted daughter, Miss Emily -Watson, and left everything to Mr. Hubert Price. There was no question as -to the validity of the will; but Messrs. Grandly deemed it their duty to -inform Mr. Hubert Price of the circumstances under which it had been made, -and also of the fact that a few weeks before his death Mr. Burnett had told -Mr. John Grandly, who was then staying with Mr. Burnett at Ashwood, that he -intended adding a codicil, leaving some two or three hundred a year to Miss -Watson. It was unfortunate that Mr. Burnett had not had time to do this; -for Miss Watson was an orphan, eighteen years of age, and entirely -unprovided for. Messrs. Grandly begged to submit these facts to the -consideration of Mr. Hubert Price. Miss Watson was now residing at Ashwood. -She was there with a friend of hers, Mrs. Bentley; and should Mr. Hubert -Price feel inclined to do what Mr. Burnett had left undone, Messrs. Grandly -would have very great pleasure in carrying his wishes into effect. - -'I'm not dreaming, am I?' - -'No, you are not. It is quite true. Your uncle has left his money to you. I -am so glad; indeed I am. You will be able to finish your play, and take a -theatre and produce it yourself if you like. I hope you won't forget me. I -do want to play that part. You can't quite know what I shall do with it. -One can't explain oneself in a scene here and there.... What are you -thinking of?' - -'I'm thinking of that poor girl, Emily Watson. It comes very hard upon -her.' - -'Who is she?' - -'The girl my uncle disinherited.' - -'Oh, she! Well, you can marry her if you like. That would not be a bad -notion. But if you do, you'll forget all about me and Lady Hayward.' - -'No; I shall never forget you, Rose.' He stretched his hand to her; but, -irrespective of his will, the gesture seemed full of farewell. - -'I'm so much obliged to you,' he said; 'had it not been for you, I might -never have opened that letter.' - -'Even if you hadn't, it wouldn't have mattered; you would have heard of -your good fortune some other way. But it is getting very late. I must say -good-night. I hope you will have a pleasant time in the country, and will -finish your play. Good-night.' - -Returning from the door, he stopped to think. 'We have been very good -friends--that is all. How strangely determined she is!... More so than I -am. She is bound to succeed. There is in her just that note of individual -passion.... Perhaps some one will find her out before I have -finished,--that would be a pity. I wonder which of us will succeed first?' - -Then the madness of good fortune came upon him suddenly; he could think no -more of Rose, and had to go for a long walk in the streets. - - - - -VII - - -'Dearest Emily, you must prepare yourself for the worst.' - -'Is he dead?' - -'Yes; he passed away quite quietly. To look at him one would say he was -asleep; he does not appear to have suffered at all.' - -'Oh, Julia, Julia, do you think he forgave me? I could not do what he asked -me.... I loved him very dearly as a father, but I could not have married -him.' - -'No, dear, you could not. Such a marriage would have been most unnatural; -he was more than forty years older than you.' - -'I do not think he ever thought of such a thing until about a month or six -weeks ago. You remember how I ran to you? I was as white as a ghost, and I -trembled like a leaf. I could hardly speak.... You remember?' - -'Yes, I remember; and some hours after, when I came into this room, he was -standing there, just there, on the hearth-rug; there was a fearful look of -pain and despair on his face--he looked as if he was going mad. I never saw -such a look before, and I never wish to see such a look again. And the -effort he made to appear unconcerned when he saw me was perhaps the worst -part of it. I pretended to see nothing, and walked away towards the window -and looked out. But all the while I could feel that some terrible drama was -passing behind me. At last I had to look round. He was sitting in that -chair, his elbows on his knees, clasping his head with both hands, the old, -gnarled fingers twined in the iron-grey hair. Then, unable to contain -himself any longer, he rushed out of the room, out of the house, and across -the park.' - -'You say that he passed away quietly; he did not seem to suffer at all?' - -'No, he never recovered consciousness.' - -'But do you think that my refusal to marry him had anything to do with his -death?' - -'Oh no, Emily; a fit of apoplexy, with a man of his age, generally ends -fatally.' - -'Even if I had known it all beforehand I don't think I could have acted -differently. I could not have married him. Indeed I couldn't, Julia, not -even if I knew I should save his life by doing so. I daresay it is very -wicked of me, but----' - -'Dearest Emily, you must not give way to such thoughts; you did quite right -in refusing to marry Mr. Burnett. It was very wrong of him even to think of -asking you, and if he had lived he would have seen how wrong it was of him -to desire such a thing.' - -'If he had lived! But then he didn't live, not even long enough to forgive -me, and when we think of how much he suffered--I don't mean in dying, you -say he passed away quietly, but all this last month how heart-broken he -looked! You remember when he sat at the head of the table, never speaking -to us, and how frightened I was lest I should meet him on the stairs; I -used to stand at the door of my room, afraid to move. I know he suffered, -poor old man. I was very, very sorry for him. Indeed I was, Julia, for I'm -not selfish, and when I think now that he died without forgiving me, I -feel, I feel--oh, I feel as if I should like to die myself. Why do such -things happen to me? I feel just as miserable now as I used to when I lived -with father and mother, who could not agree. I have often told you how -miserable I was then, but I don't think you ever quite understood. I feel -just the same now, just as if I never wanted to see any one or anything -again. I was so unhappy when I was a child, they thought I would die, and I -should have died if I had remained listening to father and mother any -longer. ... Every one thought I was so lucky when Mr. Burnett decided to -adopt me and leave me all his money, and he has done that, poor old man, so -I suppose I should be happy; but I'm not.' - -The girl's eyes turned instinctively towards the window and rested for a -moment on the fair, green prospects of the park. - -'I hated to listen to father and mother quarrelling, but I loved them, and -I had not been here a year before father died, and darling mother was not -long following him--only six months. Then I had no one: a few distant -relatives, whom I knew nothing of, whom I did not care for, so I gave all -my love to Mr. Burnett. He was so good to me; he never denied me anything; -he gave me everything, even you, dearest Julia. When he thought I wanted a -companion, he found you for me. I learnt to love you. You became my best -and dearest friend. Then things seemed to brighten up, and I thought I was -happy, when all this dreadful trouble came upon us. Don't let's speak of it -more than we can help. I often wished myself dead. Didn't you, Julia?' - -Emily Watson told the story of her misfortunes in a low, musical voice, -heedless of two or three interruptions, hardly conscious of her listener, -impressed and interested by the fatality of circumstances which she -believed in design against her. She was a small, slender girl of about -eighteen. Her abundant chestnut hair--exquisite, soft, and silky--was -looped picturesquely, and fastened with a thin tortoiseshell comb. The tiny -mouth trembled, and the large, prominent eyes reflected a strange, yearning -soul. She was dressed in white muslin, and the fantastically small waist -was confined with a white band. Her friend and companion, Julia Bentley, -was a woman of about thirty, well above the medium height, full-bosomed and -small-waisted. The type was Anglo-Saxon even to commonplace. The face was -long, with a look of instinctive kindness upon it. She was given to -staring, and as she looked at Emily, her blue eyes filled with an -expression which told of a nature at once affectionate and intelligent. She -was dressed in yellow linen, and wore a gold bracelet on a well-turned arm. - -The room was a long, old-fashioned drawing-room. It had three windows, and -all three were filled with views of the park, now growing pale in the -evening air. The flower-gardens were drawn symmetrically about the house -and were set with blue flower-vases in which there were red geraniums. It -was a very large room, nearly forty feet long, with old portraits on the -walls--ugly things and ill done; and where there were no portraits the -walls were decorated with vine leaves and mountains. The parqueted floor -was partially covered with skins, and the furniture seemed to have known -many a generation; some of it was heavy and cumbersome, some of it was -modern. There was a grand piano, and above it two full-length portraits--a -lady in a blue dress and a man in black velvet knee-breeches. At the end of -a long silence, Emily suddenly threw herself weeping into Julia's arms. - -'Oh, you are my only friend; you will not leave me now.... We shall always -love one another, shall we not? If anything ever came between us it would -kill me.... That poor old man lying dead up-stairs! He loved me very -dearly, and I loved him, too. Yet I said just now I could not have married -him even if I had known it would save his life. I was wrong; yes, I would -have married him if I had known.... You don't believe me?' - -'My dearest girl, you must try to forget that Mr. Burnett ever entertained -so foolish a thought. He was a very good man, and loved you for a long time -as he should have loved you--as a daughter. We shall respect his memory -best by forgetting the events of the last six weeks. And now, Emily, dinner -will be ready at seven o'clock, and it is now six. What are you going to -do?' - -'I shall go out for a little walk. I shall go down and see the swans.' - -'Shall I come with you?' - -'No, thank you, dear; I think I'd sooner be alone. I want to think.' - -Julia looked a moment anxiously at this fragile girl, whose tiny head was -poised on a long, delicate neck like a fruit on its stem. - -'Yes, go for a walk, dear,' said Julia; 'it will do you good. Shall I go -and fetch your hat and jacket?' - -'No, thank you, I will not trouble you; I'll go myself.' - -'No, Emily, I think you had better let me go.' - -'Oh, no; I am not afraid.' - -And she went up the wide oak staircase, thinking of the man who lay dead in -the room at the end of the passage. She was conscious of a sense of dread; -the house seemed to wear a strange air, and her dog, Dandy, was conscious -of it, too; he was more silent, less joyful than usual. And when she came -from her room, dressed to go out, instead of rushing down-stairs, barking -with joy, he dropped his tail and lingered at the end of the passage. She -called him; he still hesitated, and then, yielding to a sudden desire, she -went down the passage and knocked at the door of the room. The nurse -answered her knock. - -'Oh, don't come in, miss.' - -'Why not? I want to see him before he goes away for ever.' - -Upon the limp, white curtains of an old four-posted bed she saw the -memorable profile--stern, unrelenting. How still he lay! Never would that -face speak or laugh or see again. Although sixty-five, his head was covered -with short, thick, iron-grey hair; the beard, too, was short and thick, and -iron-grey. The face was rugged, and when Emily touched the coarse hand, -telling of a life of toil, she started--it was singularly cold. Fear and -sorrow in like measure choked her, and her soul awoke, and tremblingly she -walked out of the house, glad to breathe the sweet evening air. - -She walked towards the artificial water. The sky was melancholy and grey, -and the park lay before her, hushed and soundless. Through the shadows of -the darkening island two swans floated softly, leaving behind slight silver -lines; above, the swallows flew high in the evening. There was sensation of -death, too, in this cold, mournful water, and in the silence that hung -about it, and in some vague way it reminded Emily of her own life. She had -known little else but death; her life seemed full of death; and those -reflections, so distinct and so colourless, were like death. - -Then, in a sudden expansion of youth she wondered. Her own life, how -strange, how personal, how intense! What did it mean, what meaning had it -in the great, wide world? And the impressive tranquillity, the pale death -of the day, lying like a flower on the water, seemed to symbolise her -thought, and she felt more distinctly than she had ever done before. And -there arose in her a nervous and passionate interest in herself. She seemed -so strange, so wonderful. Her childhood was in itself an enigma. That sad -and sorrowful childhood of hers, passed in that old London house; her -mother's love for her; her cruel, stern stepfather, and the endless -quarrels between her father and mother, which made her young life so -unbearable, so wretched, that she could never think of those years without -tears rising to her eyes. And then the going away, coming to live with Mr. -Burnett! The death of her father and her dear mother, so sudden, following -so soon one after the other. How much there had been in her life, how -wonderful it was! Her love of Mr. Burnett, and then that bitter and -passionate change in him! That proposal of marriage; could she ever forget -it? And then this cruel and sudden death. Everything she had ever loved had -been taken from her. Only Julia remained, and should Julia be taken from -her, she felt that she must die. But that would not, could not, happen. She -was now mistress of Ashwood, she was a great heiress; and she and Julia -would live always together, they would always love one another, they would -always live here in this beautiful place which they loved so well. - - - - -VIII - - -There were at the funeral a few personal friends who lived in the -neighbourhood, the farmers on the estate, and the labourers; and when the -little crowd separated outside the church, Emily and Julia walked back to -Ashwood with Mr. Grandly, Mr. Burnett's intimate friend and solicitor. They -returned through the park, hardly speaking at all, Emily absent-minded as -usual, waving her parasol occasionally at a passing butterfly. The grass -was warm and beautiful to look on, and they lingered, prolonging the walk. -It was very good of Mr. Grandly to accompany them back; he might have gone -on straight to the station, so Julia thought, and she was surprised indeed -when, instead of bidding them good-bye at the front door, he said-- - -'Before I return to London I have a communication to make to both you -ladies. Will it suit you to come into the drawing-room with me?' - -'Perfectly, so far as I'm concerned; and you, Emily?' - -'Oh, I've nothing to do; but if it is about business, Julia will -attend----' - -'I think you had better be present, Miss Watson.' - -Mr. Grandly was a tall, massive man with benevolent features; his bald, -pink skull was partly covered with one lock of white hair. There was an -anxious look in his pale, deep-set eyes which impressed Julia, and she -said: 'I hope this communication you have to make to us is not of a painful -nature. We have----' - -'Yes, Mrs. Bentley, I know that you have been severely tried lately, but -there is no help for it. I cannot keep you in ignorance any longer of -certain facts relating to Mr. Burnett's will.' The words 'will' and 'facts' -struck on Emily's ear. She had been thinking about her fortune. The very -ground she was walking on was hers. She was the owner of this beautiful -park; it seemed like a fairy tale. And that house, that dear, old-fashioned -house, that rambling, funny old place of all sizes and shapes, full of deep -staircases and pictures, was hers. Her eyes wandered along the smooth wide -drive, down to the placid water crossed by the great ornamental bridge, the -island where she had watched the swans floating last night--all these -things were hers. So the words 'will' and 'facts' and 'ignorance of them' -jarred her clutching little dream, and she turned her eyes--they wore an -anxious look--towards Mr. Grandly, and said with an authoritative air: -'Yes, let us go into the drawing-room; I want to hear what Mr. Grandly has -to say about----Let us go into the drawing-room at once.' - -Julia took the chair nearest to her. Emily stood at the window, waiting -impatiently for Mr. Grandly to begin. He laid his hat on the parquet, wiped -his forehead with his handkerchief, and drew an arm-chair forward. 'Mr. -Burnett, as you know, made a will some years ago, in favour of his cousin -and adopted daughter, Miss Emily Watson. In that will he left his entire -fortune to her, Ashwood Park and all his invested money. No other person -was mentioned in that will, except Miss Watson. It was I who drew up this -will. I remember discussing its provisions with Mr. Burnett, and advising -him to leave something, even if it were only a few hundred pounds, to his -nephew, Hubert Price. But Mr. Burnett was always a very headstrong man; he -had quarrelled with this young man, as he said, irreparably, and could not -be induced to leave him even a hundred pounds. I thought this was harsh, -and as Mr. Burnett's friend I told him so--I have always been opposed to -extreme measures,--but he was not to be gainsaid. So the matter remained -for many years; never did Mr. Burnett mention his nephew's name. I thought -he had forgotten the young man's existence, when, suddenly, without -warning, Mr. Burnett came into my office and told me that he intended to -alter his will, leaving all his property to his nephew, Hubert Price. You -know what old friends we were, and, presuming on our friendship, I told him -what I thought of his project of disinheritance, for it amounted to that. -Well, suffice it to say, we very nearly quarrelled over the matter. I -refused to draw up the will, so iniquitous did it seem to me. He said: -"Very well, Grandly, I'll go elsewhere." Then I remembered that if I -allowed him to go elsewhere I should lose all hold over him, and I -consented to draw up the will.' - -Emily listened, a vague expression of pain in her pathetic eyes. Then this -house, this room where she was sitting, was not hers, and a strange man -would come soon and drive her away! - -'And he has left Ashwood to Mr. Price, is not that his name?' she said, -abruptly. - -'Yes; he has left Ashwood to Mr. Price.' - -'And when did he make this new will?' - -'I think it is just about a month ago.' - -Emily leaned forward, and her great eyes, full of light and sorrow, were -fixed in space, her little pale hands linked, and the great mass of -chestnut hair slipping from the comb. She was, in truth, at that moment the -subject of a striking picture, and she was even more impressive when she -said, speaking slowly: 'Then that old man was even wickeder than I thought. -Oh, what I have learned in the last three or four weeks! Oh, what -wickedness, what wickedness!... But go on,' she said, looking at Mr. -Grandly; 'tell me all.' - -'I suppose there was some very serious reason, but on that point Mr. -Burnett absolutely refused to answer me. He said his reasons were his own, -and that he intended to leave his money to whom he pleased.' - -'There was----' Julia stopped short, and looked interrogatively at Emily. - -'Go on, Julia, tell him; we have nothing to conceal.' - -'Mr. Burnett asked Emily to marry him a short time ago; she, of course, -refused, and ever since he seemed more like----' - -'A madman than anything else,' broke in Emily. 'Oh, for the last month we -have led a miserable life! It was a happy release.' - -'Is it possible,' said Mr. Grandly, 'that Mr. Burnett seriously -contemplated marriage with Miss Watson?' - -'Yes, and her refusal seemed to drive him out of his mind.' - -'I never was more surprised.' The placid face of the eminently respectable -solicitor lapsed into contemplation. 'I often tried,' he said, suddenly, -'to divine the reason why he changed his will. Disappointed love seemed the -only conceivable reason, but I rejected it as being quite inconceivable. -Well, it only shows how little we know what is passing in each other's -minds.' - -'Then,' said Julia, 'Mr. Burnett has divided his fortune, leaving Ashwood -to Mr. Price, and all his invested money to Emily?' - -A look of pain passed over Mr. Grandly's benevolent face, and he answered: -'Unfortunately he has left everything to Mr. Price.' - -'I'm glad,' exclaimed Emily, 'that he has left me nothing. Once he thought -fit to disinherit me because I would not marry him, I prefer not to have -anything to do with his money.' - -Mr. Grandly and Julia looked at each other; they did not need to speak; -each knew that the girl did not realise at once the full and irretrievable -nature of this misfortune. The word 'destitute' was at present unrealised, -and she only thought that she had been deprived of what she loved best in -the world--Ashwood. Mr. Grandly glanced at her, and then speaking a little -more hurriedly, said-- - -'I was saying just now that I only consented to draw up the will so that I -might be able at some future time to induce Mr. Burnett to add a codicil to -it. Later on I spoke to him again on the subject, and he promised to -consider it, and a few days after he wrote to me, saying that he had -decided to take my advice and add a codicil. Subsequently, in another -letter he mentioned three hundred a year as being the sum he thought he -would be in honour bound to leave Miss Watson. Unfortunately, he did not -live long enough to carry this intention into execution. But the letters he -addressed to me on the subject exist, and I have every hope that the heir, -Mr. Price, will be glad to make some provision for his cousin.' - -'Have you any reason for thinking that Mr. Price will do so?' said Julia. - -'No. But it seems impossible for any honourable man to act otherwise.' - -'He cannot bear enmity against Emily, who of course knew nothing of his -quarrel with his uncle. Do you know anything about Mr. Price? What is he? -Where does he live?' - -'He is a literary man, I believe. I have heard that he writes plays!' - -'Oh, a writer of plays.' - -'Yes. I am glad of it; he may be easier to deal with. I daresay it is a -mistaken notion, but one is apt to imagine that these artist folk are more -generous with their money than ordinary mortals.' - -'Is he married?' said Julia, and involuntarily she glanced toward Emily. - -Mr. Grandly, too, looked toward the girl, and then he said: 'I don't know -if Mr. Price is married; I hope not.' - -'Why do you hope so?' said Emily, suddenly. - -'Because if he isn't, there will only be one person to deal with. If he had -a wife, she would have a voice in the matter; and in such circumstances as -ours a man is easier to deal with. I earnestly hope Mr. Hubert Price is not -married, and shall consider it a great point in our favour if on returning -to town I find he is not.' Then assuming a lighter tone, for the nervous -strain of the last ten minutes had been intense, he said: 'If he is not -married, who knows--you may take a fancy to him, and he to you; then things -would be just the same as before--only better.' - -'I should not marry him--I hate him already. I wonder how you can think of -such a thing, Mr. Grandly? You know that he must be a very wicked man for -uncle to have disinherited him. I have always heard that--but I don't know -what I am saying.' Tears welled up into her eyes. 'I daresay my cousin is -not so bad as--but I can talk no more.... I am very miserable, I have -always been miserable, and I don't know why; I never did harm to any one.' - -Soon after Mr. Grandly bade the ladies good-bye. Julia followed him to the -front door. 'You will do all you can to help us? That poor child is too -young, too inexperienced, to realise what her position is.' - -'I know, I know,' said Mr. Grandly, extending both hands to Julia; 'in the -whole course of my experience I never met with a sadder case. But we must -not take too sad a view of it. Perhaps all will come right in the end. The -young man cannot refuse to make good his uncle's intentions. He cannot see -his cousin go to the workhouse. I will do the best I can for you. The -moment I get back to London, I'll set inquiries on foot and find out his -address, and when I have seen him I'll write. Good-bye.' - -Then, resolving that it were better to leave the girl to herself, Julia -took up her key-basket and hurried away on household business. But in the -middle of her many occupations she would now and then stop short to think. -She had never heard of anything so cruel before. That poor girl--she must -go to her; she must not leave her alone any longer. But it would be well to -avoid the subject as much as possible. She must think of something to -distract her thoughts. The pony-chaise. It might be the last time they had -a carriage to go out in. But they could not go out driving on the day of -the funeral. - -That evening, as they were going to bed, Emily said, lifting her sweet, -pathetic little face, looking all love and gentleness: 'Oh, to think of a -common, vulgar writer coming here, with a common, vulgar wife and a horrid -crowd of children. Oh, Julia, doesn't it seem impossible? And yet I suppose -it is true. I cannot bear to think of it. I can see the horrid children -tramping up and down the stairs, breaking the things we have known and -loved so long; and they will destroy all my flowers, and no one will -remember to feed the poor swans. Dandy, my beloved, I shall be able to take -you with me.' And she caught up the rough-haired terrier and hugged him, -kissing his dear old head. 'Dandy is mine; they can't take him from me, can -they? But do you think the swans belong to them or to us? I suppose it -would be impossible to take them with us if we go to live in London. They -couldn't live in a backyard.' - -'But, dearest Emily, who are "they"? You don't know that he is -married--literary men don't often marry. For all you know, he is a handsome -young man, who will fall madly in love with you.' - -'No one ever fell in love with me except that horrid old man--how I hate -him, how I detest to think of it! I thought I should have died when he -asked to marry me. The very memory of it is enough to make me hate all men, -and prevent me from liking any one. I don't think I could like him; I -should always see that wicked old man's hoary, wrinkled face in his.' - -'Oh, Emily, I cannot think how such ideas can come into your head. It is -not right, indeed it isn't.' And this simple Englishwoman looked at this -sensitive girl in sheer wonderment and alarm. - -'I only say what I think. I am glad the old man did disinherit me. I'm glad -we are leaving Ashwood; I cannot abide the place when I think of him.... -There, that is his chair. I can see him sitting in it now. He is grinning -at us; he is saying, "Ha! ha! I have made beggars of you both." You -remember how we used to tremble when we met his terrible old face on the -stairs; you remember how he used to sit glaring at us all through dinner?' - -'Yes, Emily, I remember all that; but I do not think it natural that you -should forget all the years of kindness; he was very good to you, and loved -you very much, and if he forgot himself at the end of his life, we must -remember the weakness of age.' - -'The hideousness of age,' Emily replied, in a low tone. The conversation -paused, and then Julia said-- - -'You are speaking wildly, Emily, and will live to regret your words. Let us -speak no more of Mr. Burnett... I daresay you will find your cousin a -charming young man. I should laugh if it were all to end in a marriage. And -how glad I should be to see you off on your honeymoon, to bid you -good-bye!' - -'Oh, Julia, don't speak like that; you will never bid me good-bye. You will -never leave me--promise me that--you are my only friend. Oh, Julia, promise -me that you will never leave me.' - -Tears rose in Julia's eyes, and taking the girl in her arms, she said, -'I'll never leave you, my dear girl, until you yourself wish it.' - -'I wish it? Oh, Julia, you do not know me. I have lost everything, Julia, -but I mustn't lose you... After all, it doesn't so much matter, so long as -we are not separated. I don't care about money, and we can have a nice -little house in London all to ourselves. And if we get too hard up, we'll -both go out as daily governesses. I think I could teach a little music, to -young children, you know; you'd teach the older ones.' Emily looked at -Julia inquiringly, and going over to the piano, attempted to play her -favourite polka. Julia, who had once worked for her daily bread, and earned -it in a sort of way by giving music-lessons, smiled sadly at the girl's -ignorance of life. - -'I see,' said Emily, who was quick to divine every shade of sentiment -passing in the minds of those she loved; 'you don't think I could teach -even the little children.' - -'My dear Emily, I hope it will never come to your having to try.' - -'I must do something to get a living,' she replied, looking vaguely and -wistfully into the fire. 'How unfortunate all this is--that horrid, horrid -old man. But supposing he had asked you to marry him--he wasn't nice, but -you are older than I, and if you had married him you would have become, in -a way, my stepmother. But what a charming stepmother! Oh, how I should have -loved that!' - -'Come, Emily, it is time to go to bed; you let your imagination run away -with you.' - -'Julia, you are not cross because----' - -'No, dear, I'm not cross. I'm only a little tired. We have talked too -long.' - -Emily's allusion to music-teaching had revived in Julia all her most -painful memories. If this man were to cast them penniless out of Ashwood! -Supposing, supposing that were to happen? Starving days, pale and haggard, -rose up in her memory. What should she do, what should she do, and with -that motherless girl dependent on her for food and clothes and shelter? She -buried her face in the pillow and prayed that she might be saved from such -a destiny. - -If this man--this unknown creature--were to refuse to help them, she and -Emily would have to go to London, and she would have to support Emily as -best she might. She would hold to her and fight for her with all her -strength, but would she not fall vanquished in the fight; and then, and -then? The same thoughts, questions, and fears turned in her head like a -wheel, and it was not until dawn had begun to whiten the window-panes that -she fell asleep. - -A few days after, the post brought a letter for Julia. After glancing -hastily down the page she said: 'This is a letter from Mr. Grandly, and it -is good news. Oh, what a relief!...' - -'Read it.' - -'"Dear Mrs. Bentley,--Immediately I arrived in London, I set to work to -find out Mr. Price's address. It was the easiest matter in the world, for -he has a play now running at one of the theatres. So I directed my letter -to the theatre, and next morning I had a visit from him. After explaining -to him the resources of the brilliant fortune he had come into, I told him -of his uncle's intention to add a codicil to his will, leaving Miss Watson -three hundred a year; I told him that this last will had left her entirely -unprovided for. He said, at once, that he fully agreed with me, and that he -would consider what was the most honourable course for him to take in -regard to his 'cousin. This is exactly what he said, but his manner was -such that before leaving he left no doubt in my mind whatever that he will -act very generously indeed. I should not be surprised if he settled even -more than the proposed three hundred a year on Miss Watson. He is a very -quiet, thoughtful young man of about two or three and thirty. He looks -poor, and I fancy he has lived through very hard times. He wears an air of -sadness and disappointment which makes him attractive, and his manners are -gentle and refined. I tell you these things, for I know they will interest -you. I have not been able to find out if he is married, but I am sorry to -say that his play has not succeeded. I should have found out more, but he -was not in my office above ten minutes; he had to hurry away to keep an -appointment at the theatre, for, as he explained, it was to be decided that -very day if the play was to be taken out of the bills at the end of the -week. He promised to call again, and our interview is fixed for eleven -o'clock the day after to-morrow. In the meantime take heart, for I think I -am justified in telling you I feel quite sanguine as to the result."' - -'Well,' said Julia, laying down the letter, 'I don't think that anything -could be more satisfactory, and just fancy dear old Mr. Grandly being able -to describe a young man as well as that.' - -'He doesn't say if he is short or tall, or dark or fair.' - -'No, he doesn't. I think he might have told us something about his personal -appearance, but it is a great relief to hear that he is not the vulgar -Bohemian we have always understood him to be. Mr. Grandly says his manners -are refined; you might take a fancy to him after all.' - -'But you don't know that he isn't married. I suppose Mr. Grandly wasn't -able to find that out. I should like to know--but not because I want to -marry him or any one else; only I don't like the idea of a great, vulgar -woman, and a pack of children scampering about the place when we go.' - -'Do you dislike children so much, then, Emily?' - -'I don't know that I ever thought about them; but I'm sure I shouldn't like -his children. I dreamt of him last night. Do you believe in dreams?' - -'What did you dream?' - -'I cannot remember, but I woke up crying, feeling more unhappy than I ever -felt in my life before. It is curious that I should dream of him last -night, and that you should receive that letter this morning, isn't it?' - -'I don't see anything strange in it. Nothing more natural than that you -should dream about him, and it was certain that I should receive a letter -from Mr. Grandly; he promised to write to me in a few days.' - -'Then you believe what is in that letter--I don't. Something tells me that -he will not act kindly, but I don't know how.' - -'I'm quite sure you are wrong, Emily. Mr. Grandly would never have written -this letter unless he knew for certain that Mr. Price would do all or more -than he promised.' - -'I can't see from the letter that he has promised anything... Even if he -does give me three hundred a year, I shall have to leave Ashwood.' - -'My dear Emily, I'm cross with you: of course, if you will insist on always -looking at the melancholy side.... Now I'm going; I've to see after the -housekeeping. Are you going into the garden?' - -'Yes, presently.' - -Emily did not seem to know what she was going to do. She looked out of the -window, she lingered in the corridor; finally she wandered into the -library. The quaint, old-fashioned room recalled her childhood to her. It -was here she used to learn her lessons. Here was the mahogany table, at -which she used to sit with her governess, learning to read and write; and -there, far away at the other end of the long room, was the round table, -where lay the old illustrated editions of _Gulliver's Travels_ and _The -Arabian Nights_, which she used to run to whenever her governess left the -room. And at the bottom of the book-cases there were drawers full of -strange papers; these drawers she used to open in fear and trembling, so -mysterious did they seem to her. And there was the book-cases full of the -tall folios, behind which lay, in dark and dim recesses, stores of books -which she used to pull out, expecting at every moment to come upon -long-forgotten treasures. She smiled now, as she recalled these childish -imaginings, and lifting tenderly the coarse drugget, she looked at the -great green globe which her fingers used to turn in infantile curiosity. - -Then leaving the library, she roamed through the house, pausing on the -first landing to gaze on the picture of the fine gentleman in a red coat, -his hand for ever on his sword. She remembered how she used to wonder whom -he was going to kill, and how sure she used to feel that at last he would -grant his adversary his life. And close by was the picture of the -wind-mill, set on the edge of the down, with the shepherd driving sheep in -the foreground. Her whole life seemed drenched with tears at the thought of -parting with these things. Every room was full of memories for her. She was -a little girl when she came to live at Ashwood, and the room at the top of -the stairs had been her nursery. There were the two beds; both were now -dismantled and bare. It was in the little bed in the corner that she used -to sleep; it was in the old four-poster that her nurse slept. And there was -the very place, in front of the fire, where she used to have her tea. The -table had disappeared, and the grate, how rusty it was! In the far corner, -by the window, there used to be a press, in which nurse kept tea and sugar. -That press had been removed. The other press was there still, and throwing -open the doors she surveyed the shelves. She remembered the very peg on -which her hat and jacket used to hang. And the long walks in the great -park, which was to her, then, a world of wonderment! - -She wandered about the old corridor, in and out of odd rooms, all -associated with her childhood--quaint old rooms, many of them lumber rooms, -full of odd corners and old cupboards, the meaning of which she used to -strive to divine. How their silence and mystery used to thrill her little -soul! Faded rooms whose mystery had departed, but whose gloom was haunted -with tenderest recollections. In one corner was the reading-chair in which -Mr. Burnett used to sit. At that time she used to sit on his knee, and when -the chair gave way beneath their weight, he had said she was too big a girl -to sit on his knee any longer. The words had seemed to her a little cruel. -She had forgotten the old chair, but now she remembered the very moment -when the servants came to take it away. - -Under the window were some fragments of a china bowl which she had broken -when quite a little child. There was a hoop-stick and the hoop which had -been taken down to the blacksmith's to be mended. He had mended it, but she -did not remember ever using it again. And there was an old box of -water-colours, with which she used to colour all the uncoloured drawings in -her picture-books. Emily took the hoop-stick, the old doll, and the broken -box of water-colours, and packed them away carefully. She would be able to -find room for them in the little house in London where she and Julia were -going to live. - -A few days after, the post brought letters from Mr. Grandly, one for Emily -and one for Julia. Julia's letter ran as follows: - -'Dear Mrs. Bentley,---I write by this post to Miss Watson, advising her -that her cousin, Mr. Price, is most anxious to make her acquaintance, and -asking her to send the dog-cart to-morrow to meet him at the station. I -must take upon myself the responsibility for this step. I have seen Mr. -Price again, and he has confirmed me in my good opinion of him. He seems -most anxious, not only to do everything right, but to make matters as -pleasant and agreeable as possible for his cousin. He has written me a -letter recognising Miss Watson's claim upon him, and constituting himself -her trustee. I have not had yet time to prepare a deed of gift, but there -can be little doubt that Miss Watson's position is now quite secure. So far -so good; but more than ever does the only clear and satisfactory way out of -this miserable business seem to me to be a marriage between Mr. Hubert -Price and Miss Watson. I have already told you that he is a nice, refined -young man, of gentlemanly bearing, good presence, and excellent speech, -though a trifle shy and reserved; and, as I have since discovered that he -is not married, I have taken upon myself the responsibility of advising him -to jump into a train and to go and tell his cousin the conclusion he has -come to regarding the will of the late Mr. Burnett. As I have said, he is a -shy man, and it was some time before I could induce him to take so decisive -a step; he wanted to meet Miss Watson in my office, but I succeeded in -persuading him. He will go down to you to-morrow by the five o'clock, and I -need not impress upon you the necessity that you should use your influence -with Miss Watson, and that his reception should be as cordial as -circumstances permit. I have only to add that I see no need that you should -show this letter to Miss Watson, for the very fact of knowing that we -desired to bring about a marriage might prejudice her against this young -man, whom she otherwise cannot fail to find charming.' - -Hearing some one at her door, Julia put the letter away. It was Emily. - -'I've just received a letter from Mr. Grandly, saying that that man is -coming here to-day, and that we are to send the dog-cart for him.' - -'Is not that the very best thing that----' - -'We cannot remain here, we must leave a note for him, or something of that -kind. I wouldn't remain here to meet him for worlds. I really couldn't, -Julia.' - -'And why not, Emily?' - -'To meet the man who is coming to turn me out of Ashwood!' - -'How do you know that he is coming to turn you out of Ashwood? You imagine -these things.... Do you suppose that Mr. Grandly would send him down here -if he did not know what his intentions were?' - -'But we shall have to leave Ashwood.' - -'Very likely, but not in the way you imagine. Remember, Mr. Price is your -cousin; you may like him very much. Let's be guided by Mr. Grandly; I have -not seen your letter, but apparently he advises us to remain here and -receive him.' - -'I don't think I can, Julia. I have misgivings.' - -'Have you been dreaming again?' - -'No; I've not been dreaming, but I have misgivings.' - -'You are a silly little goose, Emily. Come and give me a kiss, and promise -to take my advice.' - -'Dearest Julia, you do love me, don't you? Promise me that we shall not be -separated, and then I don't mind.' - -'Yes, dear, I promise you that, and you will promise me to try to like your -cousin?' - -'I'll try, Julia, but I'm awfully frightened, and--I don't think I could -like him, no matter what he was like. I feel a sort of hatred in my heart. -Don't you know what I mean?' And the girl looked questioningly into her -friend's eyes. - - - - -IX - - -'I am Miss Watson,' she said in her low musical voice, 'and this is my -friend, Mrs. Bentley.' Hubert bowed, and sought for words. He found none, -and the irritating silence was broken again by Miss Watson. 'Won't you sit -down?' she said. - -'Thank you.' He pulled off his gloves. The pained, troubled look which he -had met in Miss Watson's face seemed a reproach, and he regretted not -having followed his own idea, and invited the young lady to meet him at Mr. -Grandly's office. He glanced nervously from one lady to the other. - -'I hope you have had a pleasant journey, Mr. Price,' said Mrs. Bentley. -'The country is looking very beautiful just at present. Do you know this -part of the country?' Mrs. Bentley's words were very welcome, and Hubert -replied eagerly-- - -'No; I do not know the country at all well. I have been very little out of -London for some years, but I hope now to see more of the country. This is a -beautiful place.' - -At that moment he met Mrs. Bentley's eyes, and, feeling that he was -touching on delicate ground, he stopped speaking. When he turned his head, -he met Miss Watson's great sad eyes, which seemed to absorb the entire -face, fixed upon him. They expressed such depth of pathetic appeal that he -trembled with apprehension, and the instinct in him was to beg for pardon. -But it became suddenly necessary to say something, and, speaking at random, -his head full of whirling words, he said-- - -'Of course nothing could be more sad than my poor uncle's death,--so -unexpected... Having lived so long together, you must have----' Then it was -Hubert's turn to look appealingly at Miss Watson; but her great eyes seemed -to say, 'Go on, go on; heap cruelty on cruelty!' Then he plunged -desperately, hoping to retrieve his mistakes. 'He died about a month ago. -Mr. Grandly told me I should still find you here, so I thought----' - -The intensity of his emotion perhaps caused Hubert to accentuate his words, -so that they conveyed a meaning different from that which he intended. -Certainly his hesitations were capable of misinterpretation, and Miss -Watson said, her voice trembling,-- - -'Of course we know we have no right here, we are intruding; but we are -making preparations.... I daresay that to-morrow we shall be able to----' - -'Oh, I beg pardon, Miss Watson; let me assure you ... I am sorry if----' - -Taking a little handkerchief out of her black dress, Emily covered her face -in her thin, tiny hands. She sobbed aloud, and ran out of the room. Hubert -turned to Mrs. Bentley, his face full of consternation. - -'I am very sorry, but she did not give me time to speak. Will you go and -fetch her, Mrs. Bentley? I want to tell her I hope she will never leave -Ashwood. ... I believe she thinks that I came down here to ask her to leave -as soon as possible. It is really quite awful that she should think such a -thing.' - -'She is an exceedingly sensitive girl, and is now a little overwrought. The -events of the last month have proved too much for her.' - -'Mr. Grandly informed me that it was Mr. Burnett's intention to add a -codicil to his will, leaving Miss Watson three hundred a year. This money I -am prepared to give her, and I'm quite sure she is welcome to stay here as -long as she pleases. Indeed, she will do me a great favour by remaining. -Please go and tell her. I cannot bear to see a girl cry; to hear her sob -like that is quite terrible.' - -'You will be able to tell her yourself during the course of the evening. I -think it will come better from you.' - -'After what has happened, it will be very difficult for me to meet her -until she is informed that she is mistaken. I charged Mr. Grandly to -explain everything in his letter. Apparently he omitted to do so.' - -'He only said you wanted to see Emily on a matter of business. Of course we -did not expect such generosity.' - -They were standing quite close together, and suddenly Hubert became -conscious of Mrs. Bentley's beauty. Her blue eyes were at that moment full -of tender admiration for the instinctive generosity which Hubert so -unwittingly exhibited, and her eyes told what was passing in her soul. -Suddenly they both seemed to understand each other better, and, playing -with the bracelet on her arm, she said-- - -'You do not know Emily; she is strangely sensitive. But I will go and try -to persuade her to return.... Although only distantly related, you are -cousins, after all--are you not?' - -'Yes, we are cousins, but the relationship is remote. Tell her everything; -beg of her to come down-stairs.' - -Hubert imagined Emily's little black figure thrown upon her bed, sobbing -convulsively. He was very much agitated, and looked about the room, at -first hardly seeing it. At last its novelty drew his thoughts from his -cousin's tears, and he wondered what was the history of the house. 'The old -man,' he thought, 'bought it all, furniture and ancestors, from some ruined -landowner, and attempted very few alterations--that's clear.' Then he -reproached himself. 'How could I have been so stupid? I did not know what I -was saying. I was so horribly nervous. Those strange eyes of hers quite -upset me. I do hope Mrs. Bentley will tell her that I wish to act -generously, that I am prepared to do everything in my power to make her -happy. Poor little thing! She looks as if she had never been happy.' Again -the room drew Hubert's thoughts away from his cousin. It was still lit with -the faint perfumed glow of the sunset. The paint of the old decorations was -cracked and faded. A man in a plum-coloured coat with gold facings fixed -his eyes upon him, and the tall lady in blue satin had no doubt played -there in short clothes. He walked up and down, he turned over the music on -the piano, and, hearing a step, looked round. It was only the servant -coming to tell him that his room was ready. - -He dressed for dinner, hoping to find the two ladies in the drawing-room, -and it was a disappointment to find only Mrs. Bentley there. - -'I have told Emily everything you said. She is very grateful, and begs of -me to thank you for your kind intentions. But I am afraid you must excuse -her absence from dinner. I really don't think she is in a fit state to come -down; she couldn't possibly take part in the conversation.' - -'But why? I hope she isn't ill? Had we better send for the doctor?' - -'Oh no; she'll be all right in the morning. She has been crying. She -suffers from depression of spirits. She is, I assure you, all right,' said -Mrs. Bentley, replying to Hubert's alarmed and questioning face. 'I assure -you there is no need for you to reproach yourself. Dinner is ready.' She -took his arm, and they went into the dining-room. - -No further mention was made of Mr. Burnett, of money matters, or of the -young lady up-stairs; and with considerable tact Mrs. Bentley introduced -the subject of literature, alluding gracefully to Hubert's position as a -dramatist. - -'Your play, _Divorce_, is now running at the Queen's Theatre?' - -No; I'm sorry to say it was taken out of the bills last Saturday. Saturday -night was the last performance.' - -'That was not a long run. And the papers spoke so favourably of it.' - -'It is a play that only appeals to the few.' And, encouraged by Mrs. -Bentley's manner, Hubert told her how happy endings and comic love-scenes -were essential to secure a popular success. - -'I am afraid you will think me very stupid, but I do not quite understand.' - -In a quiet, unobtrusive way Hubert was a graceful talker, and he knew how -to adapt his theme, and bring it within the circle of the sympathies of his -listeners. There was some similarity of temperament between himself and -Mrs. Bentley; they were both quiet, fair, meditative Saxons. She lent her -whole mind to the conversation, interested in the account that the young -man gave of his dramatic aspirations. - -From the dining-room window looking over the park the long road wound -through the vaporous country. The town stood in the middle distance, its -colour blotted out, and its smoke hardly distinguishable. In the room a -yellow dress turned grey, and the gold of a bracelet grew darker, and the -pink of delicate finger-nails was no longer visible. But the pensive dusk -of the dining-room, which blackened the claret in the decanters, leaving -only the faintest ruby glow in the glass which Hubert raised to his lips, -suited the tenor of the conversation, which had wandered from the dramatic -to the social side of the question. What did he think of divorce? She -sighed, and he wondered what her story might be. - -They passed out of the dining-room, and stood on the gravel, watching the -night gathering in the open country. In the light of the moon, which had -just risen above the woods, the white road grew whiter, the town was -faintly seen in the tide of blue vapour, which here and there allowed a -field to appear. In the foreground a great silver fir, spiky and solitary, -rose up in the blue night. Beyond it was seen a corner of the ornamental -bridge. The island and its shadow were one black mass rising from the park -up to the level of the moon, which, a little to the right, between the town -and the island, lay reflected in a narrow strip of water. Farther away some -reeds were visible in the illusive light, and the meditative chatter of -dozing ducks stirred the silence which wrapped the country like a cloak. - -Hubert and Mrs. Bentley stood looking at the landscape. The fragrance of -his cigar, the presence of the woman, the tenderness of the hour, combined -to make him strangely happy; his past life seemed to him like a harsh, -cruel pain that had suddenly ceased. More than he had ever desired seemed -to be fulfilled; the reality exceeded the dream. What greater happiness -than to live here, and with this woman! His thoughts paused, for he had -forgotten the girl up-stairs. She was not happy; but he would make her -happy--of that he was quite certain. At that moment Mrs. Bentley said-- - -'I hope you like your home. Is not the prospect a lovely one?' - -'Yes; but I was thinking at that moment of Emily. I suppose I must accustom -myself to call her by her Christian name. She is my cousin, and we are -going to live together. But, by the way, she cannot stay here alone. I -hope--I may trust that you will remain with her?' - -Mrs. Bentley turned her face towards him; he noticed the look of pleasure -that had passed into it. - -'Thank you; it is very good of you. I shall be glad to remain with Emily as -long as she cares for my society. It is needless to say I shall do my best -to deserve your approval.' - -[Illustration: "They dined at the Café Royal."] - -Her voice fell, and he heard her sigh, and in his happiness it seemed to -him to be a pity that he should find unhappiness in others. - -They went into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bentley asked him if he liked music, -and she went to the piano and sang some Scotch songs very sweetly. Then she -took a book from the table and bade him good-night. She was sure that he -would excuse her. She must go and see after Emily. - -When the door closed, the woman who had just left him seemed like some one -he had seen in a dream; and still more shadowy and illusive did the girl -seem--that pale and plaintive beauty, looking like a pastel, who had so -troubled him with her enigmatic eyes! And the lodging-house that he had -left only a few hours ago! and Rose. - -On Sunday he had taken Rose out to dinner. They dined at the Café-Royal. He -had tried to talk to her about Hamilton Brown's new drama, which they had -just heard would follow _Divorce_; but he was unable to detach his thoughts -from Ashwood and the ladies he was going to visit to-morrow evening. Hubert -and Rose had felt like two school-fellows, one of whom is leaving school; -the link that had bound them had snapped; henceforth their ways lay -separate; and they were sad at parting just as school-friends are sad. - -'You are not rich; you offered to lend me money once. I want to lend you -some now.' - -'Oh yes; five shillings, wasn't it?' - -'It doesn't matter what the sum was--we were both very poor then----' - -'And I'm still poorer now.' - -'All the more reason why you should allow me to help you.... Allow me to -write you a cheque for a hundred pounds. I assure you I can afford it.' - -'I think I had better not.... I have some things I can sell.' - -'But you must not sell your things. Indeed, you must allow me----' - -'I think I'd rather not. I shall be all right--that is to say, if Ford -engages me for Brown's new piece; and I think he will.' - -'But if he doesn't?' - -'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?' - -'You mustn't abuse my picture. I used to spend hours wondering if those -horsemen galloping so madly through the wood were robbers, and if they had -robbed the castle shown between the trees. I used to wonder if they would -succeed in escaping. They wouldn't gallop their horses like that unless -they were being pursued.... Can I have the picture?' - -'Of course you can. Is that--that is not all you are going to ask me for?' - -'I did think of asking you for a few more things. Do you mind?' - -'No, not the least. The more you ask for, the more I shall be pleased.' - -'Then you must come down-stairs.' - -They went down to the next landing. Emily stopped before a bed-room, and, -looking at Hubert shyly and interrogatively, she said-- - -'This is my room. I don't know if it is in a fit state to show you. I'm not -a very tidy girl. I'll look first.' - -'Yes; it will do,' she said, drawing back. 'You can look in. I want you to -give me that wardrobe. It isn't a very handsome one, but I've used it ever -since I was a little girl; it has a hollow top, and I used to hide things -there. Do you think you can spare it?' - -'Yes; I think I can,' he said, smiling. - -Then she led him up-stairs through the old lumber rooms, picking out here -and there some generally broken and always worthless piece of furniture, -pleading for it timidly, and strangely delighted when he nodded, granting -her every request. She asked him to pull out what she had chosen from the -_débris_, and a curious collection they made in the passage--dim and -worm-eaten pictures, small book-cases, broken vases which she proposed -mending. - -Hubert wiped the dust from his hands and coat-sleeves. - -'What a lot of things you have given me! Now we shall be able to get on -nicely with our furnishing.' - -'What furnishing?' - -'The furnishing of the little house in London where Julia and I are going -to live. You said you intended to add a hundred a year to the three hundred -a year which Mr. Burnett should have left me; I don't see why you should do -such a thing, but if you do we shall have four hundred a year to live upon. -Julia says that we shall then be able to afford to give fifty pounds a year -for a house. We can get a very nice little house, she says, for that--of -course, in one of the suburbs. The great expense will be the furnishing; we -are going to do it on the hire system. I daresay one can get very nice -things in that way, but I do want to make the place look a little like -Ashwood; that is why I'm asking you for these things. I was always fond of -playing in these old lumber-rooms, and these dim old pictures, which I -don't think any one knows anything of except myself, will remind me of -Ashwood. They will look very well, indeed, hanging round our little -dining-room. You are sure you don't want them, do you?' - -'No; I won't want them. I'm only too pleased to be able to give them to -you.' - -'You are very good, indeed you are. Look at these old haymakers; I never -saw but one little corner of this picture before; it was stowed away behind -a lot of lumber, and I hadn't the strength to pull it out.... I'm afraid -you've got yourself rather dusty.' - -'Oh no; it will brush off.' - -'I shall hang this picture over the fireplace; it will look very well -there. I daresay you don't see anything in it, but I'd sooner have these -pictures than those down-stairs. I love the picture of the windmill on the -first landing----' - -'Then why not have it? I'll have it taken down at once.' - -'No; I could not think of taking it. How would the landing look without it? -I should miss it dreadfully when I came here--for I daresay you will ask us -to visit you occasionally, when you are lonely, won't you?' - -'My dear Emily, whenever you like, I hope you will come here.' - -'And you will come and stay with us in London? Your room will be always -ready; I'll look after that. We shall feel very offended, indeed, if you -ever think of going to an hotel. Of course, you mustn't expect much; we -shall only be able to keep one servant, but we shall try to make you -comfortable, and, when you come, you'll take me to the theatres, to see one -of your own plays.' - -'If my play's being played, certainly. But would it be right for me to pay -you visits in London?' - -'They would be very wicked people indeed who saw anything wrong in it; you -are my cousin. But why do you say such things? You destroy all my pleasure, -and I was so happy just now.' - -'I'm afraid, Emily, your happiness hangs on a very slender thread.' - -She looked at him inquiringly, but feeling that it would be unwise to -attempt an explanation, he said in a different tone-- - -'But, Emily, if you love Ashwood so well, why do you go away?' - -'Why do I go away? We have been here now some time.... I can't live here -always.' - -'Why not? Why not let things go on just as they are?' - -'And live here with you, I and Julia?' - -'Yes; why not?' - -'We should bore you; you want to write your plays, you'd get tired of me.' - -'Your being here would not prevent my writing my plays. I have been -thinking all the while of asking you to remain, but was afraid you would -not care to live here.' - -'Not care to live here! But you'll get tired of us; we might quarrel.' - -'No; we shall never quarrel. You will be doing me a great favour by -remaining. Just fancy living alone in this great house, not a soul to speak -to all day! I'm sure I should end by going out and hanging myself on one of -those trees.' - -'You wouldn't do that, would you?' - -Hubert laughed. 'You and Mrs. Bentley will be doing me a great favour by -remaining. If you go away I shall be robbed right and left, the gardens -will go to rack and ruin, and when you come down here you won't know the -place, and then, perhaps, we shall quarrel.' - -'I shouldn't like Ashwood to go to rack and ruin--and my poor flowers! And -I'm sure you'd forget to feed the swans. If you did that, I could not -forgive you.' - -'Well, let these grave considerations decide you to remain.' - -'Are you really serious?' - -'I never was more serious in my life.' - -'Well then, may I run and tell Julia?' - -'Certainly, and I'll--no, I won't. I'll look up the housemaids and tell -them to restore this interesting collection of antiquities to their -original dust.' - - - - -XII - - -He was, perhaps, a little too conscious of his happiness; and he feared to -do anything that would endanger the pleasure of his present life. It seemed -to him like a costly thing which might slip from his hand or be broken; and -day by day he appreciated more and more the delicate comfort of this -well-ordered house--its brightness, its ample rooms, the charm of space -within and without, the health of regular and wholesome meals, the presence -of these two women, whose first desire was to minister to his least wish or -caprice. These, the first spoilings he had received, combined to render him -singularly happy. Bohemianism, he often thought, had been forced upon -him--it was not natural to him, and though spiritual belief was dead, he -experienced in church a resurrection of influences which misfortune had -hypnotised, but which were stirring again into life. He was conscious again -of this revival of his early life in the evenings when Mrs. Bentley went to -the piano; and when playing a game of chess or draughts, remembrances of -the old Shropshire rectory came back, sudden, distinct, and sweet. In these -days the disease of fame and artistic achievement only sang monotonously, -plaintively, like the wind in the valleys where the wind never wholly -rests. - -Sometimes, when moved by the novel he was reading, he would discuss its -merits and demerits with the two women who sat by him in the quiet of the -dim drawing-room, their work on their knees, thinking of him. In the -excitement of criticism his thoughts wandered to his own work, and the -women's eyes filled with reveries, and their hands folded languidly over -their knees. He spoke without emphasis, his words seeming to drop from the -thick obsession of his dream. At ten the ladies gathered up their work, -bade him good-night; and nightly these good-nights grew tenderer, and -nightly they went up-stairs more deeply penetrated with a sense of their -happiness. But at heart he was a man's man. He hardly perceived life from a -woman's point of view; and in the long evenings which he spent with these -women he sometimes had to force himself to appear interested in their -conversation. He was as far removed from one as from the other. Emily's -wilfulness puzzled him, and he did not seem to have anything further to -talk about to Mrs. Bentley. - -He missed the bachelor evenings of former days--the whisky and water, the -pipes, and the literary discussion; and as the days went by he began to -think of London; his thoughts turned affectionately towards the friends he -had not seen for so long, and at the end of July he announced his intention -of running up to town for a few days. So one morning breakfast was hurried -through; Emily was sure there was plenty of time; Hubert looked at the -clock and said he must be off; Julia ran after him with parcels which he -had forgotten; farewell signs were waved; the dog-cart passed out of sight, -and, after lingering a moment, the women returned to the drawing-room -thoughtfully. - -'I wonder if he'll catch the train,' said Emily, without taking her face -from the window. - -'I hope so; it will be very tiresome for him if he has to come back. There -isn't another train before three o'clock.' - -'If he missed this train he wouldn't go until to-morrow morning.... I -wonder how long he'll stay away. Supposing something happened, and he never -came back!' Emily turned round and looked at Julia in dreamy wonderment. - -'Not come back at all? What nonsense you are talking, Emily! He won't be -away more than a fortnight or three weeks.' - -'Three weeks! that seems a very long while. How shall we get through our -evenings?' - -Emily had again turned towards the window. Julia did not trouble to reply. -She smiled a little, as she paused on the threshold, for she remembered -that no more than a few weeks ago Emily had addressed to her passionate -speeches declaring her to be her only friend, and that they would like to -live together, content in each other's companionship, always ignoring the -rest of the world. Although she had not mistaken these speeches for -anything more than the nervous passion of a moment, the suddenness of the -recantation surprised her a little. Three or four days after, the girl was -in a different mood, and when they came into the drawing-room after dinner -she threw her arms about Julia's neck, saying, 'Isn't this like old times? -Here we are, living all alone together, and I'm not boring myself a bit. I -never shall have another friend like you, Julia.' - -'But you'll be very glad when Hubert comes back.' - -'There's no harm in that, is there? I should be very ungrateful if I -wasn't. Think how good he has been to us.... I'm afraid you don't like him, -Julia.' - -'Oh, yes, I do, Emily.' - -'Not so much as I do.' And raising herself--she was sitting on Julia's -knees--Emily looked at Julia. - -'Perhaps not,' Julia replied, smiling; 'but then I never hated him as much -as you did.' - -A cloud came over Emily's face. 'I did hate him, didn't I? You remember -that first evening? You remember when you came up-stairs and found me -trembling in the passage--I was afraid to go to bed. ... I begged you to -allow me to sleep with you. You remember how we listened for his footstep -in the passage, as he went up to bed, and how I clung to you? Then the -dreams of that night. I never told you what my dreams were, but you -remember how I woke up with a cry, and you asked me what was the matter?' - -'Yes, I remember.' - -'I dreamt I was with him in a garden, and was trying to get away; but he -held me by a single hair, and the hair would not break. How absurd dreams -are! And the garden was full of flowers, but every time I tried to gather -them, he pulled me back by that single hair. I don't remember any more, -only something about running wildly away from him, and losing myself in a -dark forest, and there the ground was soft like a bog, and it seemed as if -I were going to be swallowed up every moment. It was a terrible sensation. -All of a sudden I woke with a cry. The room was grey with dawn, and you -said: "Emily dear, what have you been dreaming, to cry out like that?" I -was too tired and frightened to tell you much about my dream, and next -morning I had forgotten it. I did not remember it for a long time after, -but all the same some of it came true. Don't you remember how I met Hubert -next morning on the lawn? We went into the garden and spent the best part -of the morning walking about the lake.... I don't know if I told you--I ran -away when I heard him coming, and should have got away had it not been for -this tiresome dog. He called after me, using my Christian name. I was so -angry I think I hated him then more than ever. We walked a little way, and -the next thing I remember was thinking how nice he was. I don't know how it -all happened. Now I think of it, it seems like magic. It was the day that -my old donkey ran away with the mowing machine and broke the flower-vase, -the dear old thing; we had a long talk about "Jack." And then I took Hubert -into the garden and showed him the flowers. I don't think he cares much -about flowers; he pretended, but I could see it was only to please me. Then -I knew that he liked me, for when I told him I was going to feed the swans, -he said he loved swans and begged to be allowed to come too. I don't think -a man would say that if he didn't like you, do you?' - -Emily's mind seemed to contain nothing but memories of Hubert. What he had -said on this occasion, how he had looked at her on another. The -conversation paused and Emily sunned herself in the enchantment of -recollection, until at last breaking forth again, she said-- - -'Have you noticed how Ethel Eastwick goes after him? And the odd part of it -is, that she can't see that he dislikes her. He thinks nothing of her -singing; he remained talking to me in the conservatory the whole time. I -asked him to come into the drawing-room, but he pretended to misunderstand -me, and asked me if I felt a draught. He said, "Let me get you a shawl." I -said, "I assure you, Hubert, I don't feel any draught." But he would not -believe me, and said he could not allow me to sit there without something -on my shoulders. I begged of him not to move, for I knew that Ethel would -never forgive me if I interrupted her singing; but he said he could get me -a wrap without interrupting any one. He opened the conservatory door, ran -across the lawn round to the front door, and came back with--what do you -think? With two wraps instead of one; one was mine, and the other belonged -to--I don't know who it belonged to. So I said, "Oh, what ever shall we do? -I cannot let you go back again. If any one was to come in and find me -alone, what ever would they think!" Hubert said, "Will you come with me? A -walk in the garden will be pleasanter than sitting in the conservatory." I -didn't like going at first, but I thought there couldn't be much harm.' - -It seemed to Emily very terrible and very wonderful, and she experienced -throughout her numbed sense a strange, thrilling pain, akin to joy, and she -sat, her little fragile form lost in the arm-chair, her great eyes fixed in -ecstasy, seeing still the dark garden with the great star risen like a -phantom above the trees. That evening had been to her a wonder and an -enchantment, and her pausing thoughts dwelt on the moment when the distant -sound of a bell reached their ears, and the bell came nearer, clanging -fiercely in the sonorous garden. Then they saw a light--some one had come -for them with a lantern--a joke, a suitable pleasantry, and amid joyous -laughter, watching the setting moon, they had gone back to the tiled house, -where dancers still passed the white-curtained windows. Hubert had sat by -her at supper, serving her with meat and drink. In the sway of memory she -trembled and started, looking in the great arm-chair like a little bird -that the moon keeps awake in its soft nest. She no longer wished to tell -Julia of that night in the garden; her sensation of it lay far beyond -words; it was her secret, and it shone through her dreamy youth even as the -star had shone through the heavens that night. Suddenly she said-- - -'I wonder what Hubert is doing in London? I wonder where he is now?' - -'Now? It is just nine. I suppose he's in some theatre.' - -'I suppose he goes a great deal to the theatre. I wonder who he goes with. -He has lots of friends in London--actresses, I suppose; he knows them who -play in his plays. He dines at his club----' - -'Or at a restaurant.' - -'I wonder what a restaurant is like; ladies dine at restaurants, don't -they?' - -As Julia was about to make reply, the servant brought her a letter. She -opened the envelope, and took out a long, closely-written letter; she -turned it over to see the signature, and then looking toward Emily, she -said, with a pleasant smile-- - -'Now I shall be able to answer your questions better; this letter is from -Mr. Price.' - -'Oh, what does he say? Read it.' - -'Wait a moment, let me glance through it first; it is very difficult to -read.' A few moments after, Julia said, 'There's not much that would -interest you in the letter, Emily; it is all about his play. He says he -would have written before if he had not been so busy looking out for a -theatre, and engaging actors and actresses. He hopes to start rehearsing -next week. - -"I say I hope, because there are still some parts of the play which do not -satisfy me, particularly the third act. I intend to work steadily on the -play till, next Thursday, five or six hours every day; I am in perfect -health and spirits, and ought to be able to get the thing right. Should I -fail to satisfy myself, or should any further faults appear when we begin -to rehearse the piece, I shall dismiss my people, pack up my traps, and -return to Ashwood. There I shall have quiet; here, people are continually -knocking at my door, and I cannot deny my friends the pleasure of seeing -me, if that is a pleasure. But at Ashwood, as I say, I shall be sure of -quiet, and can easily finish the play this autumn, and February is a better -time than September to produce a play."' - -'Then he goes on,' said Julia, 'to explain the alterations he contemplates -making. There's no use reading you all that.' - -'I suppose you think I should not understand.' - -'My dear Emily, if you want to read the letter, there it is.' - -'I don't want to see your letter.' - -'What do you mean, Emily?' - -'Nothing, only I think it rather strange that he didn't write to me.' - -Some days after, Emily took up the book that Julia had laid down. -'"Shakespeare's Plays." I suppose you are reading them so that you'll be -able to talk to him better.' - -'I never thought of such a thing, Emily.' At the end of a long silence -Emily said-- - -'Do you think clever men like clever women?' - -'I don't know. Some say they do, some say they don't. I believe that really -clever men, men of genius, don't.' - -'I wonder if Hubert is a man of genius. What do you think?' - -'I really am not capable of expressing an opinion on the matter.' - -Another week passed away, and Emily began to assume an air of languor and -timid yearning. One day she said-- - -'I wonder he doesn't write. He hasn't answered my letter yet. Has he -answered yours?' - -'He has not written to me again. He hasn't time for letter-writing. He is -working night and day at his play.' - -'I suppose he'd never think of coming down by the morning train. He'd be -sure to come by the five o'clock.' - -'He won't come without writing. He'd be sure to write for the dog-cart.' - -'I suppose so. There's no use in looking out for him.' - -But, notwithstanding her certitude on the point, Emily could not help -choosing five o'clock as the time for a walk, and Julia noticed that the -girl's feet seemed to turn instinctively towards the lodge. Often she would -leave the flowers she was tending on the terrace, and stand looking through -the dim, sun-smitten landscape toward the red-brown spot, which was -Southwater, in the middle of the long plain. - - - - -XIII - - -Hubert felt called upon to entertain his friends, and one evening they all -sat dining at Hurlingham in the long room. The conversation, as usual, had -been about books and pictures. - -It was the moment when strings of lanterns were hoisted from tree to tree. -In front of a large space of sky the coloured globes were crude and -trivial; but in the shadows of the trees by the river, where the mist rose -into the branches, they had begun to awaken the first impression of -melancholy and the sadness of _fête_. It was the moment when the great -trees hung heavy and motionless, strangely green and solemn beneath a -slate-coloured sky; and the plaintive waltz cried on Hungarian -fiddle-strings, till it seemed the soul of this feminine evening. The -fashionable crowd had moved out upon the lawn; the white dresses were -phantom blue, and the men's coats faded into obscure masses, darkening the -gathering shadows. It was the moment when voices soften, and every heart, -overpowered with yearning, is impelled to tell of grief and disillusion; -and every moment the wail of the fiddles grew more unbearable, tearing the -heart to its very depths. - -Author and actor-manager walked up the lawn puffing at their cigars. The -others sat watching, knowing that the opportunity had come for criticism of -their friend. - -'He does not change much,' said Harding. 'Circumstances haven't affected -him. A year ago he lived in a garret re-writing his play _Divorce_. He now -rewrites _Divorce_ in a handsome house in Sussex.' - -'I thought he had finished his play,' said Thompson. 'I heard that he was -going to take a theatre and produce it himself.' - -'But did you not hear him say at dinner that he was re-writing as he -rehearsed? I met one of the actors yesterday. He doesn't know what to make -of it. He gets a new part every week to learn.' - -'Do you think he'll ever produce it?' - -'I doubt it. At the last moment he'll find that the third act doesn't -satisfy him, and will postpone the production till the spring.' - -'What do you think of his work?' - -'Very intelligent, but a little insipid--like himself. Look at him. _Il est -bien l'homme de ses ouvres_. There is something dry about him, and his -writings are like himself--hard, dry and wanting in personal passion.' - -'Yet he talks charmingly, with vivacity and intelligence, and he is so full -of appreciation of Shakespeare, Goethe, and such genuine love for -antiquity.' - -'I've heard him talk Shakespeare, Goethe, and Ibsen,' said Harding, 'but I -never heard him say anything new, anything personal. It seems to me that -you mistake quotation for perception. He assimilates, but he originates -nothing. He has read a great deal; he is covered with literature like a -rock with moss and lichen. He's appreciative, I will say that for him. He -would make a capital editor, or a tutor, or a don, an Oxford don. He would -be perfectly happy as a don; he could read up the German critics and -expound Sophocles. He would be perfectly happy as a don. As it is, he is -perfectly miserable.' - -'There was a fellow who had a studio over mine,' said Thompson. 'He had -been in the army and used to paint a bit. The academy by chance hung a -portrait, so he left the army and turned portrait-painter. One day he saw a -picture by Velasquez, and he understood how horrid were the red things he -used to send to the academy. He used to come down to see me; he used to -say, "I wish I had never seen a picture, by Gad, it is driving me out of my -mind." Poor chap, I wanted him to go back to the army. I said, Why paint? -no one forces you to; it makes you miserable; don't do so any more. When -you have anything to say, art is a joy; when you haven't, it is a curse to -yourself and to others.' - -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 génie raté_,' 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.' - -[Illustration: "Sometimes, in an exciting passage, the hands were -clasped."] - -'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. - -In the drawing-room he insisted on being nursed; and alone, amid the faded -furniture, watched over by the old portraits, her pale face fixed and her -pale hands clasping her beloved dog, she sat thinking, brooding over the -unhappiness, the incurable unhappiness, of her little life. She was -absorbed in self, and did not rail against Hubert, or even Julia. Their -personalities had somehow dropped out of her mind, and merely represented -forces against which she found herself unable any longer to contend. Nor -was she surprised at what had happened. There had always been in her some -prescience of her fate. She and unhappiness had always seemed so -inseparable, that she had never found it difficult to believe that this -last misfortune would befall her. She had thought it over, and had decided -that it would be unendurable to live any longer, and had borne many a -terrible insomnia so that she might collect sufficient chloral to take her -out of her misery; and now, as she sat thinking, she remembered that she -had never, never been happy. Oh! the miserable evenings she used to spend, -when a child, between her father and mother, who could not agree--why, she -never understood. But she used to have to listen to her mother addressing -insulting speeches to her father in a calm, even voice that nothing could -alter; and, though both were dead and years divided her from that time, the -memory survived, and she could see it all again--that room, the very paper -on the wall, and her father being gradually worked up into a frenzy. - -When she was left an orphan, Mr. Burnett had adopted her, and she -remembered the joy of coming to Ashwood. She had thought to find happiness -there; but there, as at home, fate had gone against her, and she was hardly -eighteen when Mr. Burnett had asked her to marry him. She had loved that -old man, but he had not loved her; for when she had refused to marry him he -had broken all his promises and left her penniless, careless of what might -become of her. Then she had given her whole heart to Julia, and Julia, too, -had deceived her. And had she not loved Hubert?--no one would ever know how -much; she did not know herself,--and had he not lied to her? Oh, it was -very cruel to deceive a poor little girl in this heartless way! There was -no heart in the world, that was it--and she was all heart; and her heart -had been trampled on ever since she could remember. And when they came back -they would revenge themselves upon her--insult her with their happiness; -perhaps insist on sending her away. - -Dandy drowsed on her lap. The servant brought in the tea, and when he -returned to the kitchen he said he had never seen any one look so -ghost-like as Miss Emily. The clock ticked loudly in the silence of the old -room, the hands moving slowly towards ten. She waited for the hour to -strike; it was then that she usually went to bed. Her thoughts moved as in -a nightmare; and paramount in this chaotic mass of sensation was an acute -sense of the deception that had been practised on her; with the -consciousness, now firm and unalterable, that it had become impossible for -her to live. When the clock struck she got up from her chair, and the -movement seemed to react on her brain; her thoughts unclouded, and she went -up-stairs thinking clearly of her love of this old house. The old gentleman -in the red coat, his hand on his sword, looked on her benignly; and the -lady playing the spinet smiled as sweetly as was her wont. Emily held up -the candle to the picture of the windmill. She had always loved that -picture, and the sad thought came that she should never see it again. -Dandy, who had galloped up-stairs, stood looking through the banisters, -wagging his tail. - -The moment she got into her room she wrote the following note: 'I have -taken an overdose of chloral. My life was too miserable to be borne any -longer. I forgive those who have caused my unhappiness, and I hope they -will forgive me any unhappiness I have caused them.' They were nothing to -her now; they were beyond her hate, and the only pang she felt was parting -with her beloved Dandy. There he stood looking at her, standing on the edge -of the bed, waiting for her to cover him up and put him to sleep in his own -corner. 'Yes, Dandy, in a moment, dear--have patience.' She looked round -the little room, and, remembering all that she had suffered there, thought -that the walls must be saturated with grief, like a sponge. - -It was a common thing at that time for her to stand before the glass and -address such words as these to herself: 'My poor girl, how I pity you, how -I pity you!' And now, looking at herself very sadly, she said, 'My poor -girl, I shall never pity you any more!' Having hung up her dress, she -fetched a chair and took various doses of chloral out of the hollow top of -her wardrobe, where she had hidden things all her life--sweets, novels, -fireworks. They more than half-filled the tumbler; and, looking at the -sticky, white liquid, she thought with repugnance of drinking so much of -it. But, wanting to make quite sure of death, she resolved to take it all, -and she undressed quickly. She was very cold when she got into bed. Then a -thought struck her, and she got out of bed to add a postscript to her -letter. 'I have only one request to make. I hope Dandy will always be taken -care of.' Surprised that she had not wrapped him up and told him he was to -go to sleep, the dog stood on the edge of the bed, watching her so -earnestly that she wondered if he knew what she was going to do. 'No, you -don't know, dear--do you? If you did, you wouldn't let me do it; you'd bark -the house down, I know you would, my own darling.' Clasping him to her -breast, she smothered him with kisses, then put him away in his corner, -covering him over for the night. - -She felt neither grief nor fear. Through much suffering, thought and -sensation were, to a great extent, dead in her; and, in a sort of emotive -numbness, she laid her candlestick in its usual place on the chair by her -bedside; and, sitting up in bed, her night-dress carefully buttoned, -holding the tumbler half-filled with chloral, she tried to take a -dispassionate survey of her life. She thought of what she had endured, and -what she would have to endure if she did not take it. Then she felt she -must go, and without hesitation drank off the chloral. She placed the -tumbler by the candlestick, and lay down, remembering vaguely that a long -time ago she had decided that suicide was not wrong in itself. The last -thing she remembered was the clock striking eleven. - -For half an hour she slept like stone. Then her eyes opened, and they told -of sickness now in motion within her. And, strangely enough, through the -overpowering nausea rising from her stomach to her brain, the thought that -she was not going to die appeared perfectly clear, and with it a sense of -disappointment; she would have to begin it all over again. It was with -great difficulty that she struck a match and lighted a candle. It seemed -impossible to get up. At last she managed to slip her legs out of bed, and -found she could stand, and through the various assaults of retching she -thought of the letter: it must be destroyed; and, leaning in the corner -against the wall and the wardrobe, she tried to recover herself. A dull, -deep sleep was pressing on her brain, and she thought she would never be -able to cross the room to where the letter was. Dandy looked out of his -rug; she caught sight of his bright eyes. - -On cold and shaky feet she attempted to make her way towards the letter; -but the room heaved up at her, and, fearing she should fall, and knowing if -she did that she would not be able to regain her feet, she clung to the -toilette-table. She must destroy that letter: if it were found, they would -watch her; and, however impossible her life might become, she would not be -able to escape from it. This consideration gave her strength for a final -effort. She tore the letter into very small pieces, and then, clinging to a -chair, strove to grasp the rail of the bed; but the bed rolled worse than -any ship. Making a supreme effort, she got in; and then, neither dreams nor -waking thoughts, but oblivion complete. Hours and hours passed, and when -she opened her eyes her maid stood over the bed, looking at her. - -'Oh, miss, you looked so tired and ill that I didn't wake you. You do seem -poorly, miss. It is nearly two o'clock. Should you like to sleep a little -longer, or shall I bring you up some breakfast?' - -'No, no, no, thank you. I couldn't touch anything. I'm feeling wretched; -but I'll get up.' - -The maid tried to dissuade her; but Emily got out of bed, and allowed -herself to be dressed. She was very weak--so weak that she could hardly -stand up at the washstand; and the maid had to sponge her face and neck. -But when she had drunk a cup of tea and eaten a little piece of toast, she -said she felt better, and was able to walk into the drawing-room. She -thought no more of death, nor of her troubles; thought drowned in her; and -in a passive, torpid state she sat looking into the fire till dinner-time, -hardly caring to bestow a casual caress on Dandy, who seemed conscious of -his mistress's neglect, for, in his sly, coaxing way, he sometimes came and -rubbed himself against her feet. She went into the dining-room, and the -servant was glad to see that she finished her soup, and, though she hardly -tasted it, she finished a wing of a chicken, and also the glass of wine -which the man pressed upon her. Half an hour after, when he brought out the -tea, he found her sitting on her habitual chair nursing her dog, and -staring into the fire so drearily that her look frightened him, and he -hesitated before he gave her the letter which had just come up from the -town; but it was marked 'Immediate.' - -When he left the room she opened it. It was from Mrs. Bentley:-- - -'Dearest Emily,--I know that Hubert told you that he was not going to marry -me. He thought he was not, for I had refused to marry him; but a short time -after we met in the park quite accidentally, and--well, fate took the -matter out of our hands, and we are to be married to-morrow. Hubert insists -on going to Italy, and I believe we shall remain there two months. We have -made arrangements for your aunt to live with you until we come back; and -when we do come back, I hope all the little unpleasantnesses which have -marred our friendship for this last month or two will be forgotten. So far -as I am concerned, nothing shall be left undone to make you happy. Your -will shall be law at Ashwood so long as I am there. If you would like to -join us in Italy, you have only to say the word. We shall be delighted to -have you.' - -Emily could read no more. 'Join them in Italy!' She dashed the letter into -the fire, and an intense hatred of them both pierced her heart and brain. -It was the kiss of Judas. Oh, those hateful, lying words! To live here with -her aunt until they came back, to wait here quietly until she returned in -triumph with him--him who had been all the world to her. Oh no; that was -not possible. Death, death--escape she must. But how? She had no more -chloral. Suddenly she thought of the lake. 'Yes, yes; the lake, the lake!' -And then a keen, swift, passionate longing for death, such as she had not -felt at all the night before, came upon her. There was the knowledge too -that by killing herself she would revenge herself on those who had killed -her. She was just conscious that her suicide would have this effect, but -hardly a trace of such intention appeared in the letter she wrote; it was -as melancholy and as brief as the letter she had torn up, and ended, like -it, with a request that Dandy should be well looked after. She had only -just directed the envelope when she heard the servant coming to take away -the tea-things. She concealed the letter; and when his steps died away in -the corridor and the house-door closed, she knew she could slip out -unobserved. Instinctively she thought of her hat and jacket, and, without a -shudder, remembered she would not need them. She sped down the pathway -through the shadow of the firs. - -It was one of those warm nights of winter when a sulphur-coloured sky hangs -like a blanket behind the wet, dishevelled woods; and, though there was -neither moon nor star, the night was strangely clear, and the shadow of the -bridge was distinct in the water. When she approached the brink the swans -moved slowly away. They reminded her of the cold; but the black obsession -of death was upon her; and, hastening her steps, she threw herself forward. -She fell into shallow water and regained her feet, and for a moment it -seemed uncertain if she would wade to the bank or fling herself into a -deeper place. Suddenly she sank, the water rising to her shoulders. She was -lifted off her feet. A faint struggle, a faint cry, and then -nothing--nothing but the whiteness of the swans moving through the sultry -night slowly towards the island. - - - - -XX - - -Its rich, inanimate air proclaimed the room to be an expensive bedroom in a -first-class London hotel. Interest in the newly-married couple, who were to -occupy the room, prompted the servants to see that nothing was forgotten; -and as they lingered steps were heard in the passage, and Hubert and Julia -entered. The maid-servants stood aside to let them pass, and one inquired -if madame wanted anything, so that her eyes might be gratified with a last -inquisition of the happy pair. - -'How wonderful! oh, how wonderful! I don't think I ever saw any one act -before like that--did you?' - -'She certainly had three or four moments that could not be surpassed. Her -entrance in the sleep-walking scene--what vague horror! what pale -presentiment! how she filled the stage! nothing seemed to exist but she.' - -'And Ford; what did you think of Ford's Macbeth?' - -'Very good. Everything he does is good. Talent; but the other has genius.' - -'I shall never forget this evening. What an awful tragedy!' - -'Perhaps I should have taken you to see something more cheerful; but I -wanted to see Miss Massey play Lady Macbeth. But let us talk of something -else. Splendid fire--is it not?' - -Hubert threw off his overcoat, the movement attracted Julia's attention, -and it startled her to see how old he seemed to have grown. She noticed as -she had not noticed before the grey in his beard and the pathetic weary -look that haunted his eyes. And she understood in that instant that the -look his face wore was the look of those who have failed in their vocation. - -And at that very moment he was wondering if he really loved her, if his -marriage were a mistake. The passion he had felt when walking with her on -the wet country road he felt no longer, only an undefinable sadness and a -weariness which he could not understand. He looked at his wife, and fearing -that she divined his thoughts, he kissed her. She returned his kiss coldly -and he wondered if she loved him. He thought that it was improbable that -she did. Why should she love him? He had never loved any one. He had never -inspired love in any one, except perhaps Emily. - -'I wonder if you really wished to be married,' she said. - -'I always wished to be married,' he replied. 'I hated the Bohemianism I was -forced to live in. I longed for a home, for a wife.' - -'You were very poor once?' - -'Yes: I've lived on tenpence and a shilling a day. I've worked in the docks -as a labourer. I went down there hoping to get a clerkship on board one of -the Transatlantic steamers. I had had enough of England, and thought of -seeking fortune elsewhere.' - -'I can hardly believe you worked as a labourer in the docks.' - -'Yes; I did. I saw some men going to work, and I joined them. I don't think -I thought much about it at the time. A very little misery rubs all the -psychology out of us, and we return more easily than one thinks to the -animal.' - -'And then?' - -'At the end of a week the work began to tell upon me, and I drifted back in -search of my manuscript.' - -'But you must have been in a dreadful condition; your clothes----' - -'Ah! thereby hangs a tale. An actress lived in one of the houses I had been -lodging in.' - -'Oh, tell me about her! This is getting very interesting.' - -Then passing his arm round his wife's neck, and with her sweet blonde face -looking upon him, and the insinuating warmth of the fire about them, he -told her the story of his failure. - -'But,' she said, her voice trembling, 'you would not have committed -suicide?' - -'No man knows beforehand whether he will commit suicide. I can only say -that every other issue was closed.' - -At the end of a long silence Julia said, 'I wish you hadn't spoken about -suicide. I cannot but think of Emily. If she were to make away with -herself! The very possibility turns my heart to ice. What should I do--what -should we do? I ought never to have given way; we were both abominably -selfish. I can see that poor girl sitting alone in that house grieving her -heart out.' - -'You think that we ought never to have given way!' - -'I suppose we ought not. I tried very hard, you know I did.... But do you -regret?' she said, looking at him suddenly. - -'No; I don't regret, but I wish it had happened otherwise.' - -'You don't fear anything. Nothing will happen. What can happen?' - -'The most terrible things often happen--have happened.' - -'Emily may have been fond of me--I think she was; but it was no more than -the hysterical caprice of a young girl. Besides, people do not die for -love; and I assure you it will be all right. This is not a time for gloomy -thoughts.' - -'I'll try not to think of her. Well, what were we talking about? I know: -about the actress who lived in 17 Fitzroy Street. Tell me about her.' - -'She was a real good girl. If she hadn't lent me that five shillings, I -don't know where I should be now.' - -'Were you very fond of her?' - -'No; there never was anything of that sort between us. We were merely -friends.' - -'And what has become of this actress?' - -'You saw her to-night?' - -'Was she acting in the piece we saw to-night?' - -'It was she who played Lady Macbeth.' - -'You are joking.' - -'No, I'm not. I always knew she had genius, and they have found it out; but -I must say they have taken their time about it.' - -'How wonderful! she has succeeded!' - -'Yes, _she_ has succeeded!' - -'And she is really the girl you intended to play Lady Hayward?' - -'Yes; and I hope she will play the part one of these days.' - -'Of course, she is just the woman for it. What a splendid success she has -had! All London is talking about her.' - -'And I remember when Ford refused to cast her for the adventuress in -_Divorce_. If he had, there is no doubt she would have carried the piece -through. Life is but a bundle of chances; she has succeeded, whatever that -may mean.' - -'But you will let her have the part of Lady Hayward?' - -'Yes, of course--that is to say, if----' - -'Why "if"?' - -'My thoughts are with you, dear; literature seems to have passed out of -sight.' - -'But you must not sacrifice your talent in worship of me. I shall not allow -you. For my sake, if not for hers, you must finish that play. I want you to -be famous. I should be for ever miserable if my love proved a upas-tree.' - -'A upas-tree! It will be you who will help me; it will be your presence -that will help me to write my play. I was always vaguely conscious that you -were a necessary element in my life; but I did not wake up to any knowledge -of it until that day--do you remember?--when you came into my study to ask -me what fish I'd like for dinner, and I begged of you to allow me to read -to you that second act. It is that second act that stops me.' - -'I thought you had written the second act to your satisfaction. You said -that after the talk we had that afternoon you wrote for three hours without -stopping, and that you had never done better work.' - -'Yes, I wrote a great deal; but on reading it over I found that--I don't -mean to say that none of it will stand; some still seems to me to be all -right, but a great deal will require alteration.' - -The conversation fell. At the end of a long silence Hubert said-- - -'What are you thinking of, dearest?' - -'I was thinking that supposing you were mistaken--if I failed to help you -in your work.' - -'And I never succeeded in writing my play?' - -'No; I don't mean that. Of course you will write your play; all you have to -do is to be less critical.' - -'Yes, I know--I have heard that before; but, unfortunately, we cannot -change ourselves. I'll either carry my play through completely, realise my -ideal, or----' - -'Remain for ever unsatisfied?' - -'Whether I write it or no, I shall be happy in your love.' - -'Yes, yes; let us be happy.' - -They looked at each other. He did not speak, but his thought said-- - -'There is no happiness on earth for him who has not accomplished his task.' - -'Shall we be happy? I wonder. We have both suffered,' she said, 'we are -both tired of suffering, and it is only right that we should be happy.' - -'Yes, we shall be happy, I will be happy. It shall be my pleasure to attend -to you, to give you all your desire. But you said just now that you had -suffered. I have told you my past. Tell me yours. I know nothing except -that you were unhappily married.' - -'There is little else to know; a woman's life is not adventurous, like a -man's. I have not known the excitement of "first nights," nor the striving -and the craving for an artistic ideal. My life has been essentially a -woman's life,--suppression of self and monotonous duty, varied by -heart-breaking misfortune. I married when I was very young; before I had -even begun to think about life I found---- But why distress these hours -with painful memories?' - -'It is pleasant to look back on the troubles we have passed through.' - -'Well, I learnt in one year the meaning of three terrible words--poverty, -neglect, and cruelty. In the second year of my marriage my husband died of -drink, and I was left a widow at twenty, entirely penniless. I went to live -with my sister, and she was so poor that I had to support myself by giving -music-lessons. You think you know the meaning of poverty: you may; but you -do not know what a young woman who wants to earn her bread honestly has to -put up with, trudging through wet and cold, mile after mile, to give a -lesson, paid for at the rate of one-and-sixpence or two shillings an hour.' - -Julia took her eyes from her husband's face, and looked dreamily into the -fire. Then, raising her face from the flame, she looked around with the air -of one seeking for some topic of conversation. At that moment she caught -sight of the corner of a letter lying on the mantelpiece. Reaching forth -her hand, she took it. It was addressed to her husband. - -'Here is a letter for you, Hubert.... Why, it comes from Ashwood. Yes, and -it is in the hand-writing of one of the servants. Oh, it is Black's -writing! It may be about Emily. Something may have happened to her. Open it -quickly.' - -'That is not probable. Nothing can have happened to her.' - -'Look and see. Be quick!' - -Hubert opened the letter, and he had not read three lines when Julia's face -caught expression from his, which had become overcast. - -'It is bad news, I know. Something has happened. What is it? Don't keep me -waiting. The suspense is worse than the truth.' - -'It is very awful, Julia. Don't give way.' - -'Tell me what it is. Is she dead? - -'Yes; she is dead.' Julia got up from her husband's knees and stood by the -mantelpiece, leaning upon it. 'It is more than mere death.' - -'What do you mean? She killed herself--is that it?' - -'Yes; she drowned herself the night before last in the lake.' - -'Oh, it is too horrible! Then we have murdered her. Our unpardonable -selfishness! I cannot bear it!' Her eyes closed and her lips trembled. -Hubert caught her in his arms, laid her on the chair, and, fetching some -water in a tumbler, sprinkled her face; then he held it to her lips; she -drank a little, and revived. 'I'm not going to faint. Tell me--tell me when -the unfortunate child----' - -'They don't know exactly. She was in the drawing-room at tea-time, and the -drawing-room was empty when Black went round three-quarters of an hour -after to lock up. He thought she had gone to her room. It was the gardener -who brought in the news in the morning about nine.' - -'Oh, good God!' - -'Black says he noticed that she looked very depressed the day before, but -he thought she was looking better when he brought in the tea.' - -'It was then she got my letter. Does Black say anything about giving her a -letter?' - -'Yes, that is to say----' - -'I knew it! I knew it!' said Julia; and her eyes were wild with grief, and -she rocked herself to and fro. 'It was that letter that drove her to it. It -was most ill-advised. I told you so. You should have written. She would -have borne the news better had it come from you. My instinct told me so, -but I let myself be persuaded. I told you how it would happen. I told you. -You can't say I didn't. Oh! why did you persuade me--why--why--why?' - -'Julia dear, we are not responsible. We were in nowise bound to sacrifice -our happiness to her----' - -'Don't say a word! I say we were bound. Life can never be the same to me -again.' - -Hubert did not answer. Nothing he could say would be of the slightest -avail, and he feared to say anything that might draw from her expressions -which she would afterwards regret. He had never seen her moved like this, -nor did he believe her capable of such agitation, and the contrast of her -present with her usual demeanour made it the more impressive. - -'Oh,' she said, leaning forward and looking at him fixedly, 'take this -nightmare off my brain, or I shall go mad! It isn't true; it cannot be -true. But--oh! yes, it's true enough.' - -'Like you, Julia, I am overwhelmed; but we can do nothing.' - -'Do nothing!' she cried; 'do nothing! We can do nothing but pray for -her--we who sacrificed her.' And she slipped on her knees and burst into a -passionate fit of weeping. - -'The best thing that could have happened,' thought Hubert; and his thought -said, clearly and precisely, 'Yes; it is awful, shocking, cruel beyond -measure!' - -The fire was sinking, and he built it up quietly, ashamed of this proof of -his regard for physical comfort, and hoping it would pass unnoticed. His -pain expressed itself less vehemently than Julia's; but for all that his -mind ached. He remembered how he had taken everything from her--fortune, -happiness, and now life itself. It was an appalling tragedy--one of those -senseless cruelties which we find nature constantly inventing. A thought -revealed an unexpected analogy between him and his victim. In both lives -there had been a supreme desire, and both had failed. 'Hers was the better -part,' he said bitterly. 'Those whose souls are burdened with desire that -may not be gratified had better fling the load aside. They are fools who -carry it on to the end.... If it were not for Julia----' - -Then he sought to determine what were his exact feelings. He knew he was -infinitely sorry for poor Emily; but he could not stir himself into a -paroxysm of grief, and, ashamed of his inability to express his feelings, -he looked at Julia, who still wept. - -'No doubt,' he thought, 'women have keener feelings than we have.' - -At that moment Julia got up from her knees. She had brushed away her tears. -Her face was shaken with grief. - -'My heart is breaking,' she said. 'This is too cruel--too cruel! And on my -wedding night.' - -Their eyes met; and, divining each other's thought, each felt ashamed, and -Julia said-- - -'Oh, what am I saying? This dreadful selfishness, from which we cannot -escape, that is with us even in such a moment as this! That poor child gone -to her death, and yet amid it all we must think of ourselves.' - -'My dear Julia, we cannot escape from our human nature; but, for all that, -our grief is sincere. We can do nothing. Do not grieve like that.' - -'And why not? She was my best friend. How have I repaid her? Alas! as woman -always repays woman for kindness done. The old story. I cannot forgive -myself. No, no! do not kiss me! I cannot bear it. Leave me. I can see -nothing but Emily's reproachful face.' She covered her face in her hands -and sobbed again. - -The same scenes repeated themselves over and over again. The same fits of -passionate grief; the same moment of calm, when words impregnated with self -dropped from their lips. The same nervous sense that something of the dead -girl stood between them. And still they sat by the fire, weary with sorrow, -recrimination, long regret, and pain. They could grieve no more; and before -dawn sleep pressed upon their eyelids, and at the end of a long silence he -dozed--a pale, transparent sleep, through which the realities of life -appeared almost as plainly as before. Suddenly he awoke, and he shivered in -the chill room. The fire was sinking; dawn divided the window-curtains. He -looked at his wife. She seemed to him very beautiful as she slept, her face -turned a little on one side, and again he asked himself if he loved her. -Then, going to the window, he drew the curtains softly, so as not to awaken -her; and as he stood watching a thin discoloured day breaking over the -roofs, it again seemed to him that Emily's suicide was the better part. -'Those who do not perform their task in life are never happy.' The words -drilled themselves into his brain with relentless insistency. He felt a -terrible emptiness within him which he could not fill. He looked at his -wife and quailed a little at the thought that had suddenly come upon him. -She was something like himself--that was why he had married her. We are -attracted by what is like ourselves. Emily's passion might have stirred -him. Now he would have to settle down to live with Julia, and their similar -natures would grow more and more like one another. Then, turning on his -thoughts, he dismissed them. They were the morbid feverish fancies of an -exceptional, of a terrible night. He opened the window quietly so as not to -awaken his wife. And in the melancholy greyness of the dawn he looked down -into the street and wondered what the end would be. - -He did not think that he would live long. Disappointed men--those who have -failed in their ambition--do not live to make old bones. There were men -like him in every profession--the arts are crowded with them. He had met -barristers and soldiers and clergy-men, just like himself. One hears of -their deaths--failure of the heart's action, paralysis of the brain, a -hundred other medical causes--but the real cause is, lack of appreciation. - -He would hang on for another few years, no doubt; during that time he must -try to make his wife happy. His duty was now to be a good husband, at all -events, there was that. - -His wife lay asleep in the arm-chair, and fearing she might catch cold, he -came into the room closing the window very gently behind him. - -THE END - -Printed by T. and A. 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