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.