When already it was daylight, he went upstairs and lay down on the bed; he was weary, but not with the kind of weariness that brings sleep. His mind was occupied with plans for discovering where Emily lived. Mrs. Baxendale had professed to have lost sight of her; Wilfrid saw now that there was a reason for concealing the truth, and felt that in all probability his friend had misled him; in any case, he could not apply to her. Was there a chance of a second meeting in the same place? Emily was sure to be free on Saturday afternoon; but only in one case would she go to the park again—if she desired to see him, and imagined a corresponding desire on his side. And that was an unlikely thing; granting she loved him, it was not in Emily’s character to scheme thus, under the circumstances.
Yet why had she chosen to come and live in London?
Beatrice he had put out of his thoughts. He did not do it deliberately; he made no daring plans; simply he gave himself over to the rising flood of passion, without caring to ask whither it would bear him. Though it fevered him, there was a luxury in the sense of abandonment once more to desire which suffered no questioning. That he had ever really loved Beatrice he saw now to be more than doubtful; that he loved Emily was as certain as that he lived. To compare the images of the two women was to set side by side a life sad and wan with one which bloomed like a royal flower, a face whose lines were wasted by long desolation with one whose loveliness was the fit embodiment of supreme joy. But in the former he found a beauty of which the other offered no suggestion, a beauty which appealed to him with the most subtle allurements, which drew him as with siren song, which, if he still contemplated it, would inspire him with recklessness. He made no effort to expel it from his imagination; every hour it was sweeter to forget the facts of life and dream of what might be.
Through this day and that which followed he kept away from home, only returning late at night. No more news of Beatrice came. He saw that his father regarded him with looks of curiosity, but only conversation of the wonted kind passed between them. When Saturday arrived he was no longer in doubt whether to pursue the one faint hope of finding Emily again in Bushey Park; the difficulty was to pass the time till noon, before which it was useless to start. He was due for the last sitting in the studio at Teddington, but that was an ordeal impossible to go through in his present state of mind. He went to Hampton by train, lunched again at the King’s Arms, though but hastily, and at length reached the spot in the park where his eyes had discovered Emily reading.
It was not such a day as Wednesday had been; the sun shone intermittently, but there was threatening of rain. A vehicle now and then drove along the avenue taking holiday-makers to the Palace, and, near the place where Wilfrid walked, a party was picnicking under the trees. But he in vain sought for one who wandered alone, one who, in the distance, could move him to uncertain hope.
Why had he come? Suppose he did again meet Emily, what had he to say to her? Long and useless waiting naturally suggested such thoughts, and the answer to them was a momentary failing at the heart, a touch of fear. Was he prepared to treat this temporary coldness between Beatrice and himself as a final rupture? Was his present behaviour exactly that of a man who recognises rules of honour? If he had no purpose in wishing to see Emily but the satisfaction of a desire about which he would not reason, was it not unqualified treachery in which he was involving himself, treachery to two women and to one of them utter cruelty? He turned to walk towards the lake, desperate that his hope had failed, and at the same time—strange contradiction—glad in the thought that, having once yielded, he might overcome his madness. He passed the lake, and reached the exit from the park. At the same moment Emily was entering.
Her face expressed an agony of shame; she could not raise her eyes, could not speak. She gave him her hand mechanically, and walked on with her looks averted. Her distress was so unconcealed that it pained him acutely. He could not find words till they had walked a distance of twenty or thirty yards. Then he said:
‘I came purposely to-day, in the hope that you might by chance be here. Do I annoy you?’
She half turned her face to him, but the effort to speak was vain.
A still longer silence followed. Wilfrid knew at length what he had done. That utterance of his had but one meaning, Emily’s mute reply admitted of but one interpretation. His eyes dazzled; his heart beat violently. A gulf sank before him, and there was no longer choice but to plunge into it. He looked at his companion, and—farewell the solid ground.
‘Emily, is it your wish that I should leave you?’
She faced him, moved her lips, motioned ‘no’ with her head. She was like one who is led to death.
‘Then I will not leave you. Let us walk gently on; you shall speak to me when you feel able.’
He cared for no obstacle now. She was come back to him from the dead, and to him it was enough of life to hold her. Let the world go; let all speak of him as they would; this pale, weary-eyed woman should henceforth represent existence to him. He would know no law but the bidding of his sovereign love.
She spoke.
‘Have I fallen in your eyes?’
‘You have always been to me the highest, and will be whilst I live.’
They had passed into the shadow of the trees; he took her hand and held it. The touch seemed to strengthen her, for she looked at him again and spoke firmly.
‘Neither was my coming without thought of you. I had no hope that you would be here, no least hope, but I came because it was here I had seen you.’
‘Since Wednesday,’ Wilfrid returned, ‘I have read your letters many times. Could you still speak to me as you did then?’
‘If you could believe me.’
‘You said once that you did not love me.’
‘It was untrue.’
‘May you tell me now what it was that came between us?’
She fixed upon him a gaze of sad entreaty, and said, under her breath, ‘Not now.’
‘Then I will never ask. Let it be what it might; your simple word that you loved me is all I need.’
‘I will tell you,’ Emily replied, ‘but I cannot now. It seemed to me at the time that that secret would have to die with me; I thought so till I met you here. Then I knew that, if you still loved me and had been faithful to me so long, I could say nothing to myself which I might not speak to you. My love for you has conquered every other love and everything that I believed my duty.’
‘Is it so, Emily?’ he asked, with deepest tenderness.
‘When I tell you all, you will perhaps feel that I have proved my own weakness. I will conceal from you nothing I have ever thought; you will see that I tried to do what my purest instincts urged, and that I have been unable to persevere to the end. Wilfrid—’
‘My own soul!’
‘When I tell you all that happened at that time, I shall indeed speak to you as if your soul and mine were one. It may be wrong to tell you—you may despise me for not keeping such things a secret for ever. I cannot tell whether I am right or wrong to do this. Is your love like mine?’
‘I would say it was greater, if you were not so above me in all things.’
‘Wilfrid, I was dying in my loneliness. It would not have been hard to die, for, if I was weak in everything else, at least my love for you would have grown to my last breath. If I speak things which I should only prove in silence, it is that you may not afterwards judge me hardly.’
‘You shall tell me,’ Wilfrid replied, ‘when you are my wife. Till then I will hear nothing but that you are and always have been mine.’
They came to a great tree about the trunk of which had been built a circular seat. The glades on every side showed no disturbing approach.
‘Let us sit here,’ said Wilfrid. ‘We have always talked with each other in the open air, haven’t we?’
He drew her to him and kissed her face passionately. It was the satisfying of a hunger of years. With Beatrice his caresses had seldom been other than playful; from the first moment of re-meeting with Emil
y, he had longed to hold her to his heart.
‘Can I hope to keep you now? You won’t leave me again, Emily?’
‘If I leave you, Wilfrid, it will be to die.’
Again he folded her in his arms, and kissed her lips, her cheeks, her eyes. She was as weak as a trembling flower.
‘Emily, I shall be in dread through every moment that parts us. Will you consent to whatever I ask of you? Once before I would have taken you and made you my wife, and if you had yielded we should have escaped all this long misery. Will you now do what I wish?’
She looked at him questioningly.
‘Will you marry me as soon as it can possibly be? On Monday I will do what is necessary, and we can be married on Wednesday. This time you will not refuse?’
‘Wednesday?’
‘Yes. One day only need intervene between the notice and the marriage; it shall be at the church nearest to you.’
‘Wilfrid, why do you—’
Fear had taken hold upon her she could not face the thought. Wilfrid checked her faint words with his lips.
‘I wish it,’ he said, himself shaken with a tempest of passion which whelmed the last protest of his conscience. ‘I shall scarcely tear myself from you even till then. Emily, Emily, what has my life been without your love? Oh, you will be the angel that raises me out of the ignoble world into which I have fallen! Hold me to you—make me feel and believe that you have saved me! Emily, my beautiful, my goddess! let me worship you, pray to you! Mine now, mine, love, for ever and ever!
She burst into tears, unable to suffer this new denizen of her heart, the sure and certain hope of bliss. He kissed away the tears as they fell, whispering love that was near to frenzy. There came a Bob that shook her whole frame, then Wilfrid felt her cheek grow very cold against his; her eyes were half closed, from her lips escaped a faint moan. He drew back and, uncertain whether she had lost consciousness, called to her to speak. Her body could not fall, for it rested against a hollow part of the great trunk. The faintness lasted only for a few moments; she once more gazed at him with the eyes of infinite sadness.
‘It is so hard to bear happiness,’ were her first words.
‘My dearest, you are weak and worn with trouble. Oh, we will soon leave that far behind us. Are you better, my lily? Only give me your hands to hold, and I will be very still. Your hands are so light; they weigh no more than leaves. Do you suffer, dear?’
‘A little pain—there;’ she touched her heart.
Wilfrid looked into her face anxiously.
‘Have you often that pain?’
‘No, not often. I don’t feel it now. Wilfrid! Every day I have spoken that name, have spoken it aloud.’
‘So have I often spoken yours, dear.’
They gazed at each other in silence.
‘And it is to be as I wish?’ Wilfrid said gently.
‘So very soon?’
‘So very long! This is only Saturday. If I had known this morning, it could have been on Monday.’
‘Your wife, Wilfrid? Really your wife?’
‘How your voice has changed! Till now you spoke so sadly. Those words are like the happiest of our old happy time. Three long days to be passed, but not one day more. You promise me?’
‘I do your bidding, now and always, always!’
For the moment she had forgotten everything but love and love’s rapture. It was as though life spread before her in limitless glory; she thought nothing of the dark foe with whose ever-watchful, ever-threatening presence she had become so familiar.
They talked long; only the lengthening and deepening shadow of the trees reminded them at length that hours had passed whilst they sat here.
‘The boat will have gone,’ Emily said.
‘Never mind. We will get a conveyance at the hotel. And you must have refreshment of some kind. Shall we see what they can give us to eat at the King’s Arms? To be sure we will. It will be our first meal together.’
They rose.
‘Emily!’
‘Yes, Wilfrid?’
‘I can trust you? You will not fail me?’
‘Not if I am living, Wilfrid.’
‘Oh, but I shall of course see you before Wednesday. Tomorrow is Sunday—’
He checked himself. Sunday was the day he always gave to Beatrice. But he durst not think of that now.
‘On Sunday there are so many people about,’ he continued. ‘Will you come here again on Monday afternoon?’
Emily promised to do so.
‘I will write to you tomorrow, and again a letter for Tuesday, giving you the last directions. But I may have to see you on Tuesday. May I call at your lodgings?’
‘If you need to. Surely you may? My—my husband?’
‘My wife!’
They walked to the hotel, and thence, when dusk was falling, started to drive homewards. They stopped at the end of Emily’s street, and Wilfrid walked with her to the door.
‘Till Monday afternoon,’ he said, grasping her hand as if he clung to it in fear.
Then he found another vehicle. It was dark when he reached home.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE UNEXPECTED
Late in the evening Wilfrid received a visit from his father. Mr. Athel had dined with his sister, and subsequently accompanied his nieces to a concert. Beatrice should have sung, but had broken her engagement on the plea of ill-health.
‘Been at home all the evening?’ Mr. Athel began by asking.
‘I got home late,’ Wilfrid answered, rising from his chair.
His father had something to say which cost him hesitation. He walked about with his hands between the tails of his coat.
‘Seen Beatrice lately?’ he inquired at length.
‘No; not since last Monday.’
‘I’m afraid she isn’t well. She didn’t sing to-night. Didn’t dine with us either.’
Wilfrid kept silence.
‘Something wrong?’ was his father’s next question.
‘Yes, there is.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
Wilfrid went to the fireplace and leaned his arm upon the mantelpiece. As he did not seem disposed to speak, his father continued—
‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘Yes; something serious.’
‘You don’t mean that? Anything you can talk about?’
‘I’m afraid not. I shall go and see Beatrice as usual tomorrow. I may be at liberty to tell you after that, though probably not for a few days.’
Mr. Athel looked annoyed.
‘I hope this is not of your doing,’ he said. ‘They tell me the girl is causing them a good deal of anxiety. For the last few days she has been sitting alone, scarcely touching food, and refusing to speak to anyone. If this goes on she will be ill.’
Wilfrid spoke hoarsely.
‘I can’t help it. I shall see her tomorrow.’
‘All right,’ observed his father, with the impatience which was his way of meeting disorders in this admirable universe. ‘Your aunt asked me to tell you this; of course I can do no more.’
Wilfrid made no reply, and Mr. Athel left him.
It was an hour of terrible suffering that Wilfrid lived through before he left the study and went to lay his head on the pillow. He had not thought very much of Beatrice hitherto; the passion which had spurred him blindly on made him forgetful of everything but the end his heart desired. Now that the end was within reach, he could consider what it was that he had done. He was acting like a very madman. He could not hope that any soul would regard his frenzy even with compassion; on all sides he would meet with the sternest condemnation. Who would recognise his wife? This step which he was taking meant rupture with all his relatives, perchance with all his friends; for it would be universally declared that he had been guilty of utter baseness. His career was ruined. It might happen that he would have to leave England with Emily, abandoning for her sake everything else that he prized.
How would Beatrice bear the revelation? Mer
e suspense had made her ill; such a blow as this might kill her. Never before had he been consciously guilty of an act of cruelty or of wrong to any the least valued of those with whom he had dealt; to realise what his treachery meant to Beatrice was so terrible that he dared not fix his thought upon it. Her love for him was intense beyond anything he had imagined in woman; Emily had never seemed to him possessed with so vehement a passion. Indeed he had often doubted whether Emily’s was a passionate nature; at times she was almost cold—appeared so, in his thought of her—and never had she given way to that self-forgetful ardour which was so common in Beatrice. Sweat broke out upon his forehead as he saw the tragic issues to which his life was tending. There was no retreat, save by a second act of apostasy so unspeakably shameful that the brand of it would drive him to self-destruction. He had made his choice, or had been driven upon it by the powers which ruled his destiny; it only remained to have the courage of his resolve and to defy consequences. At least it was in no less a cause than that of his life’s one love. There was no stamp of turpitude on the end for which he would sacrifice so much and occasion so much misery.
He passed the time in his own rooms till the afternoon of the following day; then, at the customary hour, he set forth to visit Beatrice. Would she see him? In his heart he hoped that she would refuse to; yet he dreaded lest he should be told that she was too unwell. It was a new thing in Wilfrid’s experience to approach any door with shame and dread; between his ringing the bell and the servant’s answer he learnt ‘well what those words mean.
He was admitted as usual, the servant making no remark. As usual, he was led to Beatrice’s room.
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