'Is he very angry? Has he gone to his study? Do you think he will come down
to dinner?'
'I suppose he'll come down for dinner.'
'Will you go and ask him?'
'I hardly see how I can do that. He is very busy.... And if you would
listen to any advice of mine, it would be to leave him to himself as much
as possible for the present. He is so taken up with his play; I know he's
most anxious about it.'
'Is he? I don't know. He never speaks to me about it. I hate that play, and
I hate to see him go up to that study! I cannot understand why he should
trouble himself about writing plays; he doesn't want the money, and it
can't be agreeable sitting up there all alone thinking.... It is easy to
see that it only makes him unhappy. But you encourage him to go on with it.
Oh yes, you do; there's no use saying you don't. You are always talking to
him about it; you bring the conversation up. You think I don't see how you
do it, but I do; and you like doing it, because then you have him all to
yourself. I can't talk to him about that play; and I wouldn't if I could,
for it only makes him unhappy. But you don't care whether he's unhappy or
not; you only think of yourself.'
'You surely don't believe what you are saying is true? To-morrow you will
be sorry for what you have said. You cannot think that I would deceive you,
Emily? Remember what friends we have been.'
'I remember everything. You think I don't; but I do. And you think also
that there's no reason why I should be miserable; but there is. Because you
do not feel my misery, you think it doesn't exist. I daresay you think,
too, that you are very good and kind; but you aren't. You think you deceive
me; but you don't. I know all that is passing between you and Hubert. I
know a great deal more than I can explain....'
'But tell me, Emily, what is it you suspect? What do you accuse me of?'
'I accuse you of nothing. Can't you understand that things may go wrong
without it being any one's fault in particular?'
Julia wondered how Emily could think so wisely. She seemed to have grown
wiser in her grief. But grief helped her no further in her instinctive
perception of the truth, and she resumed her puerile attack on her friend.
'Nothing has gone well with me ever since you came here. I was
disinherited; and I daresay you were glad, for you knew that if the money
did not come to me it would go to Hubert, and I do know----'
'What are you saying, Emily? I never heard of such wild accusations before!
You know very well that I never set eyes on Mr. Price until he came down
here.'
'How should I know what you know or don't know? But I know that all my life
every one has been plotting against me. And I cannot make out why. I never
did harm to any one.'
The conversation paused. Emily flung herself back on the pillow. Not even a
sob. The candle burned like a long yellow star in the shadows, yielding
only sufficient light for Julia to see the outlines of a somewhat untidy
room,--an old-fashioned mahogany wardrobe, cloudy and black, upon
old-fashioned grey paper, some cardboard boxes, and a number of china
ornaments, set out on a small table covered with a tablecloth in
crewel-work.
'I would do anything in the world for you, Emily. I am your best friend,
and yet----'
'I have no friend. I don't believe in friends. You think people are your
friends, and then you find they are not.'
'How can I convince you of the injustice of your suspicions?'
'I see all plainly enough; it is fate, I suppose.... Selfishness. We all
think of ourselves--we can't help it; and that's what makes life so
miserable.... He would be a very good match. You have got him to like you.
Perhaps you didn't intend to; but you have done it all the same.'
'But, Emily dear, listen! There is no question of marriage between me and
Mr. Price. If you will only have patience, things will come right in the
end.'
'For you, perhaps.'
'Emily, Emily! ... You should try to understand things better.'
'I feel them, even if I don't understand.'
'Admit that you were wrong about the ring. Have I not convinced you that
you were wrong?'
Emily did not answer. But at the end of a long silence, in which she had
been pursuing a different train of thought, she said, 'Then you mean that
he has never asked you to marry him?'
The directness of the question took Julia by surprise, and, falsehood being
unnatural to her, she hesitated, hardly knowing what to answer. Her
hesitation was only momentary; but in that moment there came up such a wave
of pity for the grief-stricken girl that she lied for pity's sake, 'No, he
never asked me to marry him. I assure you that he never did. If you do not
believe me----' As she was about to say, 'I will swear it if you like,' an
irresponsible sensation of pride in her ownership of his love surged up
through her, overwhelming her will, and she ended the sentence, 'I am very
sorry, but I cannot help it.'
The words were still well enough; it was in the accent that the truth
transpired. And then yielding still further to the force which had
subjugated her will, she said--
'I admit that we have talked about a great many things.' (Again she strove
not to speak, but the words rose red-hot to her lips.) 'He has said that he
would like to marry, but I should not think of accepting----'
'Then it is just as I thought!' Emily cried; 'he wants to get rid of me!'
Julia was shocked and surprised at the depth of disgraceful vanity and
cowardice which special circumstances had brought within her consciousness.
The Julia Bentley of the last few moments was not the Julia Bentley she was
accustomed to meet and interrogate, and she asked herself how she might
exorcise the meanness that had so unexpectedly appeared in her. Should she
pile falsehood on falsehood? She felt it would be cruel not to do so; but
Emily said, 'He wants to marry to get rid of me, and not because he loves
you.' Then it was hard to deny herself the pleasure of telling the whole
truth; but she mastered her desire of triumph, and, actuated by nothing but
sincerest love and pity, she said--
'Oh, Emily dear, he never asked me to marry him; he does not love me at
all! Why will you not believe me?'
'Because I cannot!' she cried passionately. 'I only ask to be left alone.'
'A little patience, Emily, and all will come right. Mr. Price does not want
to get rid of you. You wrong him just as you wrong me. He has often said
how much he likes you; indeed he has.' Although speaking from the bottom of
her heart, it seemed to Julia that she was playing the part of a cruel,
false woman, who was designingly plotting to betray a helpless girl; and
not understanding why this was so, she was at once puzzled and confused. It
seemed to her that she was being borne on in a wind of destiny, and her
will seemed to beat vainly against it, like a bird's wings when a storm is
blowing. She was conscious of a curious powerlessness; it surprised her,
and she could not understand why she continued talking, so vain and useless
did words seem to her--an idle patter. She continued--
'You think that I stand between you and Mr. Price. Now, I assure you that
it is not so. I tell you I should refuse Mr. Price, even if he were to ask
me to marry him, here, at this very moment. I pledge you my word on this.
Give me your hand, Emily. You will not refuse it?' Emily gave her hand. 'It
is quite ridiculous to promise, for he will never ask me; but I promise not
to marry him even if he should ask me.' She gave the promise, determined to
keep it; and yet she knew she would not keep it. She argued passionately
with herself, a prey to an inward dread; for no matter how firmly she
forced resolution upon resolution, they all seemed to melt in her soul like
snow on a blazing fire. Then, determined to rid herself of a numb sensation
of powerlessness, and achieve the end she desired, she said, 'I'll tell
you, Emily, what I'll do. I'll not stay here; I will go away. Let me go
away, dear, and then it will be all right.'
'No, no! you mustn't leave; I don't want you to leave. It would be said
everywhere that I had you sent away.... You promise me not to leave?'
Raising herself, Emily clung to Julia's arm, detaining her until she had
extorted the desired promise.
'Very well; I promise,' she said sadly. 'But I think you are wrong; indeed
I do. I have always thought that "the only solution of the problem" was my
departure.' Memory had betrayed her into Hubert's own phrase.
'Why should you go? You think, I suppose, that I'm in love with Hubert? I'm
not. All I want is for things to go on just the same--for us to be friends
as we were before.'
'Very well, Emily--very well.... But in the meantime you must not neglect
your meals as you have been doing lately. If you don't take care, you'll
lose your health and your looks. I have been noticing how thin you are
looking.'
'I suppose you have told him that I am looking thin and ill.... Men like
tall, big, healthy women like you--don't they?'
'I see, Emily, that it is hopeless; every word one utters is
misinterpreted. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes; or, if you like, I
will dine up-stairs; and you and Mr. Price----'
'But is he coming down to dinner? I thought you said he had gone to his
study; sometimes he dines there.'
'I can tell you nothing about Mr. Price. I don't know whether he'll dine
up-stairs or down.'
At that moment a knock was heard at the door, and the servant announced
that dinner was ready. 'Mr. Price has sent down word, ma'am, that he is
very busy writing; he hopes you'll excuse him, and he'll be glad if you
will send him his dinner up on a tray.'
'Very well; I shall be down directly.'
The slight interruption had sufficed to calm Julia's irritation, and she
stood waiting for Emily. But seeing that she showed no signs of moving, she
said, 'Aren't you coming down to dinner, Emily?' It was a sense of strict
duty that impelled the question, for her heart sank at the prospect of
spending the evening alone with the girl. But seeing the tears on Emily's
cheeks, she sat down beside her, and said, 'Dearest Emily, if you would
only confide in me!'
'There's nothing to confide....'
'You mustn't give way like this; you really mustn't. Come down and have
some dinner.'
'It is no use; I couldn't eat anything.'
'He may come into the drawing-room in the course of the evening, and will
be so disappointed and grieved to hear that you have not been down.'
'No; he will spend the whole evening in his room; we shall not see him
again.'
'But if I go and ask him to come; if I tell him----'
'No; do not speak to him about me; he'd only say that I was interfering
with his work.'
'That is unjust, Emily; he has never reproached you with interfering with
his work. Shall I go and tell him that you won't come down because you
think he is angry with you?'
Ten minutes passed, and no answer could be obtained from Emily--only
passionate and illusive refusals, denials, prayer to be left alone; and
these mingled with irritating suggestions that Julia had better go at once,
that Hubert might be waiting for her. But Julia bore patiently with her and
did not leave her until Hubert sent to know why his dinner was delayed.
Emily had begun to undress; and, tearing off her things, she hardly took
more than five minutes to get into bed.
'Shall I light a candle?' Julia asked before leaving.
'No, thank you.'
'Shall I send you up some soup?'
'No; I could not touch it.'
'You are not going to remain in the dark? Let me light a night-light?'
'No, thank you; I like the dark.'