by George Moore
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 an
d 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.
