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.