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.