XVI

The study in which he had determined to write his masterpiece had been

fitted up with taste and care. The floor was covered with a rare Persian

carpet, and the walls were lined with graceful bookcases of Chippendale

design; the volumes, half morocco, calf, and the yellow paper of French

novels, showed through the diamond panes. The writing-table stood in front

of the window; like the bookcases, it was Chippendale, and on the dark

mahogany the handsome silver inkstand seemed to invite literary

composition. There was a scent of flowers in the room. Emily had filled a

bowl of old china with some pale September roses. The curtains were made of

a modern cretonne--their colour was similar to the bowl of roses; and the

large couch on which Hubert lay was covered with the same material. On one

wall there was a sea-piece by Courbet, and upon another a river landscape,

with rosy-tinted evening sky, by Corot. The chimney-piece was set out with

a large gilt timepiece, and candelabra in Dresden china. Hubert had bought

these works of art on the occasion of his last visit to London, about two

months ago.

It was twelve o'clock. He had finished reading his second act, and the

reading had been a bitter disappointment. The idea floated, pure and

seductive, in his mind; but when he tried to reduce it to a precise shape

upon paper, it seemed to escape in some vague, mysterious way. Enticingly,

like a butterfly it fluttered before him; he followed like a child,

eagerly--his brain set on the mazy flight. It led him through a country

where all was promise of milk and honey. He followed, sure that the

alluring spirit would soon choose a flower; then he would capture it. Often

it seemed to settle. He approached with palpitating heart; but lo! when the

net was withdrawn it was empty.

A look of pain and perplexity came upon his face; he remembered the lodging

at seven shillings a week in the Tottenham Court Road. He had suffered

there; but it seemed to him that he was suffering more here. He had changed

his surroundings, but he had not changed himself. Success and failure,

despair and hope, joy and sorrow, lie within and not without us. His pain

lay at his heart's root; he could not pluck it forth, and its gratification

seemed more than ever impossible. He changed his position on the couch.

Suddenly his thoughts said, 'Perhaps I am mistaken in the subject. Perhaps

that is the reason. Perhaps there is no play to be extracted from it;

perhaps it would be better to abandon it and choose another.' For a few

seconds he scanned the literary horizon of his mind. 'No, no!' he said

bitterly, 'this is the play I was born to write. No other subject is

possible; I can think of nothing else. This is all I can feel or see.' It

was the second act that now defied his efforts. It had once seemed clear

and of exquisite proportions; now no second act seemed possible: the

subject did not seem to admit of a second act; and, clasping his forehead

with his hands, he strove to think it out.

Any distraction from the haunting pain, now become chronic, is welcome, and

he answers with a glad 'Come in!' the knock at the door.

'I'm sorry,' said Mrs. Bentley, 'for disturbing you, but I should like to

know what fish you would like for your dinner--soles, turbot, or whiting?

Immersed in literary problems as you are, I daresay these details are very

prosaic; but I notice that later in the day----'

Hubert laughed. 'I find such details far more agreeable than literature. I

can do nothing with my play.'

'Aren't you getting on this morning?'

'No, not very well.'

'What do you think of turbot?'

'I think turbot very nice. Emily likes turbot.'

'Very well, then. I'll order turbot.'

As Mrs. Bentley was about to withdraw, she said, 'I'm sorry you are not

getting on. What stops you now? That second act?'

'Come, you are not very busy. I'll read you the act as it stands, and then

tell you how I think it ought to be altered. Nothing helps me so much as to

talk it over; not only does it clear up my ideas, but it gives me desire to

write. My best work has always been done in that way.'

'I really don't think I can stay. If Emily heard that you had been reading

your play to me----'

'I'm tired of hearing of what Emily thinks. I can put up with a good deal,

and I know that it is my duty to show much forbearance; but there is a

limit to all things!' This was the first time Mrs. Bentley had seen him

show either excitement or anger; she hardly knew him in this new aspect. In

a moment the blonde calm of the Saxon had dropped from him, and some Celtic

emphasis appeared in his speech. 'This hysterical girl,' he continued, 'is

a sore burden. Tears about this, and sighs about that; fainting fits

because I happen to take a chair next to yours. You may depend upon it our

lives are already the constant gossip of the neighbourhood.'

'I know it is very annoying; and I, I assure you, receive my share. Every

look and word is misinterpreted. I must not stay here.'

'You must not go! I really want you. I assure you that your opinion will be

of value.'

'But think of Emily. It will make her wretched if she hears of it. You do

not know how it affects her. The slightest thing! You hardly see anything;

I see it all.'

'But there is no sense in it; it is pure madness. I'm writing a play,

trying to work out a most difficult problem, and am in want of an audience,

and I ask you if you will be kind enough to let me read you the act, and

you cannot listen to it because--because--yes, that's just it--because!'

'You do not know how she suffers. Let me go; spare her the pain.'

'She is not the only one who suffers. Do you think that I don't suffer?

I've set my heart--my very life is set on this play. I must get through

with it; they are all waiting for it. My enemies say I cannot write it, but

I shall if you will help me.'

[Illustration: "Sometimes, in an exciting passage, the hands were

clasped."]

'Poor Emily's heart is equally broken. Her life is equally set----' Mrs.

Bentley did not finish. Hubert just caught the words. Their significance

struck him; he looked questioningly into Mrs. Bentley's eyes; then,

pretending not to have understood, he begged her to remain. With the air of

one who yields to a temptation, she came into the room. He felt strangely

happy, and, drawing over an arm-chair for her, he threw himself on the

couch. He noticed that she wore a loose white jacket, and once during the

reading of the act he was conscious of a beautiful hand hanging over the

rail of the chair. Sometimes, in an exciting passage, the hands were

clasped. The black slippers and the slender black-stockinged ankles showed

beneath the skirt; and when he raised his eyes from the manuscript, he saw

the blonde face and hair, and the pale eyes were always fixed upon him. She

listened with a keen and penetrating interest to his criticism of the act,

agreeing with him generally, sometimes quietly contesting a point, and with

some strange fascination drawing new and unexpected ideas from him; and in

the intellectual warmth of her femininity his brain seemed to clear and his

ideas took new shape.

'Ah,' he said, after two hours' delightful talk, 'how much I'm indebted to

you! At last I see my mistakes; in two days I shall have written the act.

And he wrote rapidly for nearly two hours, reconstructing the opening

scenes of his second act.' He then threw himself on the couch, smoked a

cigar, and after half an hour's rest continued writing till dinner-time.

When he came down-stairs, the thought of what he had been writing was still

so vivid in him that he did not notice at once the silence of those with

whom he was dining. He complimented Mrs. Bentley on the freshness of the

turbot; she hardly answered; and then he became aware that something had

gone wrong. What? Only one thing was possible. Emily had heard that Mrs.

Bentley had been in his study. Looking from the woman to the girl, he saw

that the latter had been weeping. She was still in a highly hysterical

state, and might burst into tears and fly from the dinner-table at any

moment. His face changed expression, and it was with difficulty that he

restrained his temper. His life had been made up of a constant recurrence

of these scenes, and he was wholly weary of them; and the thought of the

absolute want of reason in the causeless jealousy, and the misery that

these little bickerings made of his life, exasperated him beyond measure.

The dinner proceeded in silence, and every slight remark was a presage of

storm. Hubert hoped the girl would say nothing until the servant left the

room, and with that view he never spoke a word except to ask the ladies

what they would take to eat. These tactics might have succeeded if Mrs.

Bentley had not unfortunately said that next week she intended to go to

London for a couple of days. 'The Eastwicks are there now, and they've

asked me to stay with them.'

'I think I shall go up with you. I want to go to London,' said Emily.

'It will be very nice if you'll come; but we cannot both stay with the

Eastwicks; they have only one spare room.'

'I suppose you'd like me to go to an hotel.'

'My dear Emily, how can you think of such a thing? A young girl like you

could not stay at an hotel alone. I shall be only too pleased if you will

go to the Eastwicks; I will go to the hotel.'

Emily's lip quivered, and in the irritating silence both Hubert and Mrs.

Bentley saw that she was trying to overcome her passion. They fervently

hoped she would succeed; for at that moment the servant was handing round

the wine, and the time he took to accomplish this service seemed endless.

He had filled the last glass, had handed round the dessert, and was

preparing to leave the room when Emily said--

'The hotel will suit you very well. You'll be free to see Hubert whenever

you like.'

Hubert looked up quickly, hoping Mrs. Bentley would not answer, but before

he could make a sign she said--

'What do you mean, Emily? I did not know that Hubert was going to London.'

'You hardly expect me to believe that, do you?'

The servant was still in the room; but no look of astonishment appeared on

his face, and Hubert hoped he had not heard. An awful silence glowered upon

the dinner-table. The moment the door closed Hubert said, turning angrily

to Emily--

'Really, I am quite surprised, Emily, that you should make such

observations in the presence of servants! This has been going on quite long

enough; you are making the house intolerable. I shall not be able to live

here any longer.'

Emily burst into a passionate flood of tears. She declared she was

wretchedly miserable, and that she fully understood that Hubert had begun

to regret that he had asked her to stay at Ashwood. Everything had been

taken from her; every one was against her. Her sobs shook her frail little

frame as if they would break it, and Hubert's heart was wrung at the sight

of such genuine suffering.

'My dear Emily, I assure you you are mistaken. We both love you very much.'

He got up from his chair, and, putting his arm about her, besought her to

dry her eyes; but she shook him passionately from her, and fled from the

room.

Three days after, Emily tore up one of her songs, because Mrs. Bentley had

sung it without her leave. And so on and so on, week after week. No sooner

was one quarrel allayed than signs of another began to appear. Hubert

despaired. 'How is this to end?' he asked himself every day. Mrs. Bentley

begged him to cancel her promise, and allow her to go. But that was

impossible. He could not remain alone with Emily; if he left her she would

not fail to believe that he had gone after her rival. The situation had

become so tense that they ended by discussing these questions almost

without reserve. To make matters worse, Emily had begun visibly to lose her

health. There was neither colour in her cheeks nor light in her eyes; she

hardly slept at all, and had grown more than ever like a little shadow. The

doctor had been summoned, and, after prescribing a tonic, had advised quiet

and avoidance of all excitement. Therefore Hubert and Mrs. Bentley agreed

never to meet except when Emily was present, and then strove to speak as

little as possible to each other. But the very fact of having to restrain

themselves in looks, glances, and every slightest word--for Emily

misinterpreted all things--whetted their appetites for each other's

society.

In the misery of his study, when he watched the sheet of paper, he often

sought relief in remembrance of her sweet manner, and the happy morning he

had spent in her companionship. What he had written under the direct

influence of her inspiration still seemed to him to be less bad than the

rest of his play; and he began to feel sure that, if ever this play were

written, it would be written in the benign charm of her sweet

encouragement, in the reposeful shadow of her presence. But that presence

was forbidden him--that presence that seemed so necessary; and for what

reason? Turning on the circumstances of his life, he raged against them,

declaring that it would be folly to allow his very life's desire to be

frittered away to gratify a young girl's caprice,--a caprice which in a few

years she would laugh at. And whenever he was not thinking of his play, he

remembered the charm of Mrs. Bentley's company, and the beneficent effect

it had on his work. He had never known a woman he had liked so much, and he

felt--he started at the thought, so like an inspiration did it seem to

him--that the only possible solution of the present situation was his

marriage with her. Once he was married, Emily would soon learn to forget

him. They would take her up to London for the season; and, amid the healthy

excitement of balls and parties, her girlish fancy would evaporate. No

doubt she would meet again the young cavalry officer whose addresses she

had received so coldly. She would be sure to meet him again--be sure to

think him the most charming man in the world; they would marry, and she

would make him the best possible wife. The kindest action they could do

Emily would be to marry. There was nothing else to do, and they must do

something, or else the girl would die. It seemed wonderful to Hubert that

he had not thought of all this before. 'It is the very obvious solution of

the problem,' he said; and his heart beat as he heard Mrs. Bentley's step

in the corridor. It died away in the distance; but a few days after, when

he heard it again, he jumped from his chair, and ran to the door. 'Come,'

he said, 'I want to speak to you.'

'No, no, I beg of you!'

'I must speak to you!' He laid his hand upon her arm, and said, 'I beg of

you. I have something to say--it is of great importance. Come in.'

They looked at each other a moment, and it seemed as if they could see into

each other's souls. Then a look of yielding passed into her eyes, and she

said--

'Well, what is it?'

The familiarity of the words struck her, and she saw by the kindling

tenderness in his eyes that they had given him pleasure. She almost knew he

was going to tell her that he loved her. He looked towards the open door,

and, guessing his intention, she said--

'Don't shut it! Speak quickly. Remember that she may pass at any moment.

Were she to find us together, she would suffer; it would be tears and

reproaches. What you have to say to me is about her?'

'Of course; we never speak of anything else. But we must not be overheard.

I must shut the door.' She noticed a certain embarrassment in his manner.

Suddenly relinquishing his intention to take her hands, he said--

'This cannot go on; our lives are being made unbearable. You agree with

me--do you not?'

'Yes,' she said, with a curious inquiring look in her eyes. 'You had better

let me leave. It is the only way out of the difficulty.'

'You know very well, Julia, that that is impossible.'

It was the first time he had used her Christian name, and she knew now he

was going to ask her to marry him. A frightened look passed into her face;

she turned from him; he took her hands.

'No, Julia,' he said; 'there is another and better way out of the

difficulty. You will stop here--you will be my wife?' Reading the look of

pain that had come into her eyes, he said, 'You will not refuse me? I want

you--I can do nothing without you. If you leave me, I shall never be able

to write my play; it can only be written under your influence. I love you,

Julia!' She allowed him to draw her towards him, and then she broke away.

'Oh,' she said, 'why do you say these things? You only make my task harder.

You know that I cannot betray my friend. Why do you tempt me to do a

dishonourable action?'

'A dishonourable action! What do you mean? It is the only way to save her.

Once we are married, she will forget. No doubt she will shed a few tears;

but to save the body we must often lose a limb. It is even so. Things

cannot go on as they are. We cannot watch her withering away under our very

eyes; and that is what is actually happening. I have thought it all over,

considered it from every point of view, and have come to the conclusion

that--that, well, that we had better marry. You must have seen that I

always liked you. I did not myself know how much until a few days ago. Say

that I am not wholly disagreeable to you.'

'No; I will not listen to you! My conscience tells me plainly where my duty

lies. Not for all the world will I play Emily false. I shudder to think of

such a thing; it would be the basest ingratitude. I owe everything to her.

When I hadn't a penny in the world, and when in my homelessness I wrote to

Mr. Burnett, she pleaded in my favour, and decided him to take me as a

companion. No, no! a thousand times no! Let go my hands. Do you not know

what it is to be loyal?'

'I hope I do. But, as I have explained, it is the only solution. The

romantic attachments of young girls, unless nipped in the bud, often end

fatally. Do you not see how ill she is looking? She is wearing her life

away. We shall be acting in her best interests. Besides, she is not the

only person to be considered. Do I not love you? Are you not the very woman

whose influence, whose guidance, is necessary, so that I should succeed?

Without your help I shall never write my play. A woman's influence is

necessary to every undertaking. The greatest writers owe their best

inspiration to----'

'Her heart is as closely set upon you as yours is upon your play.'

'But,' cried Hubert, 'I do not love her! Under no circumstances would I

marry her. That I swear to you. If she and I were alone on a desert

island----'