'Why should we return? I cannot go back to that girl. Oh, the miserable
life we are leading!'
'What can we do? We must go back; we cannot live in a tent by the wayside.
We have no tent to set up.'
'Come to London, and be my wife.'
'No,' she said; 'that is impossible. Let us not speak of it.'
Hubert did not answer; and, turning their faces homeward, they walked some
way in silence. Suddenly Hubert said--
'No; it is impossible. I cannot return. There is no use. I'm at the end of
my tether. I cannot.'
She looked at him in alarm.
'Hubert,' she said, 'this is folly! I cannot return without you.'
'You ruin my life; you refuse me the only happiness. I'm more wretched than
I can tell you!'
'And I! Do you think that I'm not wretched?' She raised her face to his;
her eyes were full of tears. He caught her in his arms, and kissed her. The
warm touch of her lips, the scent of her face and hair, banished all but
desire of her.
'You must come with me, Julia. I shall go mad if you don't. I can care for
no one but you. All my life is in you now. You know I cannot love that
girl, and we cannot continue in this wretched life. There is no sense in
it; it is a voluntary, senseless martyrdom!'
'Hubert, do not tempt me to be disloyal to my friend. It is cruel of you,
for you know I love you. But no, nothing shall tempt me. How can I? We do
not know what might happen. The shock might kill her. She might do away
with herself.'
'You must come with me,' said Hubert, now completely lost in his passion.
'Nothing will happen. Girls do not do away with themselves; girls do not
die of broken hearts. Nothing happens in these days. A few more tears will
be shed, and she will soon become reconciled to what cannot be altered. A
year or so after, we will marry her to a nice young man, and she will
settle down a quiet mother of children.'
'Perhaps you are right.'
An empty fly, returning to the town, passed them. The fly-man raised his
whip.
'Take you to the railway station in ten minutes!'
Hubert spoke quietly; nevertheless there was a strange nervousness in his
eyes when he said--
'Fate comes to help me; she offers us the means of escape. You will not
refuse, Julia?'
Her upraised face was full of doubt and pain, and she was perplexed by the
fly-man's dull eyes, his starved horse, his ramshackle vehicle, the wet
road, the leaden sky. It was one of those moments when the familiar appears
strange and grotesque. Then, gathering all her resolution, she said--
'No, no; it is impossible! Come back, come back.'
He caught her arm: quietly and firmly he led her across the road. 'You must
listen to me.... We are about to take a decisive step. Are you sure
that----'
'No, no, Hubert, I cannot; let us return home.'
'I go back to Ashwood! If I did, I should commit suicide.'
'Don't speak like that.... Where will you go?'
'I shall travel.... I shall visit Italy and Greece.... I shall live
abroad.'
'You are not serious?'
'Yes, I am, Julia. That cab may not take both, but it certainly will take
one of us away from Ashwood, and for ever.'
'Take you to Southwater, sir--take you to the station in ten minutes,' said
the fly-man, pulling in his horse. A zig-zag fugitive thought passed: why
did the fly-man speak of taking them to the station? How was it that he
knew where they wanted to go? They stopped and wondered. The poor horse's
bones stood out in strange projections, the round-shouldered little fly-man
sat grinning on his box, showing three long yellow fangs. The vehicle, the
horse, and the man, his arm raised in questioning gesture, appeared in
strange silhouette upon the grey clouds, assuming portentous aspect in
their tremulous and excited imaginations. 'Take you to Southwater in ten
minutes!' The voice of the fly-man sounded hard, grating, and derisive in
their ears.
He had stopped in the middle of the road, and they walked slowly past,
through a great puddle, which drenched their feet.
'Get in, Julia. Shall I open the door?'
'No, no; think of Emily. I cannot, Hubert,--I cannot; it would kill her.'
The conversation paused, and in a long silence they wondered if the fly-man
had heard. Then they walked several yards listening to the tramp of the
hoofs, and then they heard the fly-man strike his horse with the whip. The
animal shuffled into a sort of trot, and as the carriage passed them the
fly-man again raised his arm and again repeated the same phrase, 'Drive you
to the station in ten minutes!' The carriage was her temptation, and Julia
hoped the man would linger no longer. For the promise she had given to
Emily lay like a red-hot coal upon her heart; its fumes rose to her head,
and there were times when she thought they would choke her, and she grew so
sick with the pain of self-denial that she could have thrown herself down
in the wet grass on the roadside, and laid her face on the cold earth for
relief. Would nothing happen? What madness! Night was coming on, and still
they followed the road to Southwater. Rain fell in heavy drops.
'We shall get wet,' she murmured, as if she were answering the fly-man, who
had said again, 'Drive you to the station in ten minutes!' She hated the
man for his persistency.
'Say you will come with me!' Hubert whispered; and all the while the rain
came down heavier.
'No, no, Hubert.... I cannot; I promised Emily that I never would. I am
going back.'
'Then we must say good-bye. I will not go back.'
'You don't mean it. You don't really intend me to go back to Emily and tell
her?... She will not believe me; she will think I have sent you away to
gain my own end. Hubert, you mustn't leave me ... and in all this wet. See
how it rains! I shall never be able to get home alone.'
'I will drive you on as far as the lodge-gate; farther than the lodge I
will not go. Nothing in the world shall tempt me to pass it.'
At a sign from Hubert the little fly-man scrambled down from his box. He
was a little old man, almost hunchbacked, with small mud-coloured eyes and
a fringe of white beard about his sallow, discoloured face. He was dressed
in a pale yellow jacket and waistcoat, and they both noticed that his
crooked little legs were covered with a pair of pepper-and-salt trousers.
They felt sure he must have overheard a large part of their conversation,
for as he opened the carriage door he grinned, showing his three yellow
fangs.... His appearance was not encouraging. Julia wished he were
different, and then she looked at Hubert. She longed to throw herself into
his arms and weep. But at that moment the heavens seemed to open, and the
rain came down like a torrent, thick and fast, splashing all along the road
in a million splashes.
'Horrible weather, sir; shan't be long a-takin' you to Southwater. What
part of the town be yer going to--the railway station?'
Julia still hesitated. The rain beat on their faces, and when some chilling
drops rolled down her neck she instinctively sought shelter in the
carriage.
'Drive me to the station as fast as you can. Catch the half-past five to
London, and I'll give you five shillings.'
The leather thong sounded on the starved animal's hide, the crazy vehicle
rocked from side to side, and the wet country almost disappeared in the
darkness. Hedges and fields swept past them in faintest outline, here and
there a blurred mass, which they recognised as a farm building. His arm was
about her, and she heard him murmur over and over again--
'Dearest Julia, you are what I love best in the world.'
The words thrilled her a little, but all the while she saw Emily's eyes and
heard her voice.
Hubert, however, was full of happiness--the sweet happiness of the quiet,
docile creature that has at last obtained what it loves.