XX

Its rich, inanimate air proclaimed the room to be an expensive bedroom in a

first-class London hotel. Interest in the newly-married couple, who were to

occupy the room, prompted the servants to see that nothing was forgotten;

and as they lingered steps were heard in the passage, and Hubert and Julia

entered. The maid-servants stood aside to let them pass, and one inquired

if madame wanted anything, so that her eyes might be gratified with a last

inquisition of the happy pair.

'How wonderful! oh, how wonderful! I don't think I ever saw any one act

before like that--did you?'

'She certainly had three or four moments that could not be surpassed. Her

entrance in the sleep-walking scene--what vague horror! what pale

presentiment! how she filled the stage! nothing seemed to exist but she.'

'And Ford; what did you think of Ford's Macbeth?'

'Very good. Everything he does is good. Talent; but the other has genius.'

'I shall never forget this evening. What an awful tragedy!'

'Perhaps I should have taken you to see something more cheerful; but I

wanted to see Miss Massey play Lady Macbeth. But let us talk of something

else. Splendid fire--is it not?'

Hubert threw off his overcoat, the movement attracted Julia's attention,

and it startled her to see how old he seemed to have grown. She noticed as

she had not noticed before the grey in his beard and the pathetic weary

look that haunted his eyes. And she understood in that instant that the

look his face wore was the look of those who have failed in their vocation.

And at that very moment he was wondering if he really loved her, if his

marriage were a mistake. The passion he had felt when walking with her on

the wet country road he felt no longer, only an undefinable sadness and a

weariness which he could not understand. He looked at his wife, and fearing

that she divined his thoughts, he kissed her. She returned his kiss coldly

and he wondered if she loved him. He thought that it was improbable that

she did. Why should she love him? He had never loved any one. He had never

inspired love in any one, except perhaps Emily.

'I wonder if you really wished to be married,' she said.

'I always wished to be married,' he replied. 'I hated the Bohemianism I was

forced to live in. I longed for a home, for a wife.'

'You were very poor once?'

'Yes: I've lived on tenpence and a shilling a day. I've worked in the docks

as a labourer. I went down there hoping to get a clerkship on board one of

the Transatlantic steamers. I had had enough of England, and thought of

seeking fortune elsewhere.'

'I can hardly believe you worked as a labourer in the docks.'

'Yes; I did. I saw some men going to work, and I joined them. I don't think

I thought much about it at the time. A very little misery rubs all the

psychology out of us, and we return more easily than one thinks to the

animal.'

'And then?'

'At the end of a week the work began to tell upon me, and I drifted back in

search of my manuscript.'

'But you must have been in a dreadful condition; your clothes----'

'Ah! thereby hangs a tale. An actress lived in one of the houses I had been

lodging in.'

'Oh, tell me about her! This is getting very interesting.'

Then passing his arm round his wife's neck, and with her sweet blonde face

looking upon him, and the insinuating warmth of the fire about them, he

told her the story of his failure.

'But,' she said, her voice trembling, 'you would not have committed

suicide?'

'No man knows beforehand whether he will commit suicide. I can only say

that every other issue was closed.'

At the end of a long silence Julia said, 'I wish you hadn't spoken about

suicide. I cannot but think of Emily. If she were to make away with

herself! The very possibility turns my heart to ice. What should I do--what

should we do? I ought never to have given way; we were both abominably

selfish. I can see that poor girl sitting alone in that house grieving her

heart out.'

'You think that we ought never to have given way!'

'I suppose we ought not. I tried very hard, you know I did.... But do you

regret?' she said, looking at him suddenly.

'No; I don't regret, but I wish it had happened otherwise.'

'You don't fear anything. Nothing will happen. What can happen?'

'The most terrible things often happen--have happened.'

'Emily may have been fond of me--I think she was; but it was no more than

the hysterical caprice of a young girl. Besides, people do not die for

love; and I assure you it will be all right. This is not a time for gloomy

thoughts.'

'I'll try not to think of her. Well, what were we talking about? I know:

about the actress who lived in 17 Fitzroy Street. Tell me about her.'

'She was a real good girl. If she hadn't lent me that five shillings, I

don't know where I should be now.'

'Were you very fond of her?'

'No; there never was anything of that sort between us. We were merely

friends.'

'And what has become of this actress?'

'You saw her to-night?'

'Was she acting in the piece we saw to-night?'

'It was she who played Lady Macbeth.'

'You are joking.'

'No, I'm not. I always knew she had genius, and they have found it out; but

I must say they have taken their time about it.'

'How wonderful! she has succeeded!'

'Yes, _she_ has succeeded!'

'And she is really the girl you intended to play Lady Hayward?'

'Yes; and I hope she will play the part one of these days.'

'Of course, she is just the woman for it. What a splendid success she has

had! All London is talking about her.'

'And I remember when Ford refused to cast her for the adventuress in

_Divorce_. If he had, there is no doubt she would have carried the piece

through. Life is but a bundle of chances; she has succeeded, whatever that

may mean.'

'But you will let her have the part of Lady Hayward?'

'Yes, of course--that is to say, if----'

'Why "if"?'

'My thoughts are with you, dear; literature seems to have passed out of

sight.'

'But you must not sacrifice your talent in worship of me. I shall not allow

you. For my sake, if not for hers, you must finish that play. I want you to

be famous. I should be for ever miserable if my love proved a upas-tree.'

'A upas-tree! It will be you who will help me; it will be your presence

that will help me to write my play. I was always vaguely conscious that you

were a necessary element in my life; but I did not wake up to any knowledge

of it until that day--do you remember?--when you came into my study to ask

me what fish I'd like for dinner, and I begged of you to allow me to read

to you that second act. It is that second act that stops me.'

'I thought you had written the second act to your satisfaction. You said

that after the talk we had that afternoon you wrote for three hours without

stopping, and that you had never done better work.'

'Yes, I wrote a great deal; but on reading it over I found that--I don't

mean to say that none of it will stand; some still seems to me to be all

right, but a great deal will require alteration.'