LYRICAL
Miss Hood did not, of course, dine with the family. Though, as Mrs.
Rossall said, it was a distinct advantage to have in the house a
governess whom one could in many respects treat as an equal, yet there
was naturally a limit, in this as in all other matters. We have not yet,
either in fact or in sentiment, quite outgrown the social stage in which
personal hiring sets on the hired a stigma of servitude. Mrs. Rossall
was not unaware that, in all that concerned intellectual refinement, her
governess was considerably superior to herself, and in personal
refinement not less a lady; but the fact of quarterly payments, spite of
all this, inevitably indicated a place below the salt. Mr. Athel,
though, as we have seen, anxious to indulge himself in humane regard
whenever social regulations permitted, was the last man to suffer in his
household serious innovations upon traditional propriety.
So Miss Hood--Emily, as she was called by the little group of people
away in Yorkshire, to whom she was other than a governess; Emily; as we
will permit ourselves to call her henceforth--always had the meal of tea
with the children. After that the evening was her own, save that the
twins kept her company until their hour of bedtime. The school-room was
also her sitting-room. After half-past eight in the evening she had it
to herself, and there she passed many an hour of quiet content, playing
softly on the piano, reading, dreaming. In the matter of books she was
well off; Mr. Athel and his sister had subscriptions at several London
libraries, and of these the governess was invited to make free use. It
was some restraint upon her that her choice of reading always passed
under Mrs. Bossall's eyes, but not so much after the first few weeks.
The widow was by this time well advanced in the resumption of purely
mundane literature, and the really liberal tone which prevailed in the
house removed apprehension in the pursuit of modern studies. For it was
rather an ideal towards which she was working than an attainment in
fact, that eclecticism of which she spoke to Wilfrid Athel. The monthly
library lists which came under her eyes offered many a sore temptation.
She was true on the whole to her system; she did not read at random, and
never read frivolously; but a taste strongly directed to the best in
literature will find much in the work of our day, especially its
criticism, which is indispensable as guidance, or attractive by its
savour. This was not Emily's first access, fortunately, to the streams
of contemporary thought; already she had enjoyed and largely used
opportunities of the most various reading. She was able now to choose
with discretion, and in a great degree to make her study serve directly
the scheme of culture which she had devised for herself.
Few governesses had so pleasant a life. Mrs. Rossall, supported by her
brother's views, imposed on her children a minimum of brain-work. Bodily
health was after all the first thing, especially in the case of girls. A
couple of hours' school in the morning, one hour given to preparation of
lessons after tea--this for the present was deemed quite enough. 'Your
companionship throughout the day will always be forming their minds,'
Mrs. Rossall said in one of her earliest conversations with Emily; it
was pleasantly put, and truer than it would have been in the ease of
many instructresses. The twins were not remarkably fond of their
lessons, but in Emily's hands they became docile and anxious to please.
She had the art of winning their affection without losing control over
them; had Mrs. Bossall's rather languid habits of mind allowed her to
give attention to the subject, she would have been struck with the
singular combination of tenderness and reverence which the two
entertained towards their teacher. Little laxities of behaviour arid
phrase upon which their mother's presence would be no check, they did
not venture to allow themselves when with Emily; her only reproof was a
steady gaze, eloquent of gentleness, but it proved quite sufficient. The
twins were in truth submitting to the force of character. They felt it
without understanding what it meant; one ether person in the house
experienced the same influence, but in his case it led to reflection.
Wilfrid was at Balliol when Miss Hood first arrived; he saw her for the
first time when he came to town after his collapse. All hastened away to
The Firs together. Wilfrid suffered no positive illness; he shared in
the amusements of the family, and, with the exception of a good deal of
pishing and pshawing at the restraints put upon him, had the appearance
of one taking an ordinary holiday. There was undeniable truth in
Beatrice Redwing's allusion to his much talking; without social
intercourse he would soon have become ill in earnest; association with
intelligent--all the better if argumentative--people was an
indispensable condition of his existence. In his later school, and early
college, days this tendency to give free utterance to his thoughts made
him not altogether the most delightful of companions to such as were
older than himself; his undeniable cleverness and the stores of
knowledge he had already acquired needed somewhat more of the restraint
of tact than his character at that time supplied. People occasionally
called him a prig; now and then he received what the vernacular of youth
terms 'a sitting upon.' The saving feature of his condition was that he
allowed himself to be sat upon gracefully; a snub well administered to
him was sure of its full artistic, and did not fail in its moral,
effect: there was no vulgar insolence in the young fellow. What he
received he could acknowledge that he deserved. A term or two at Balliol
put this right; in mingling with some that were his equals, and one or
two who were his superiors, he learned prudence in the regulation of his
speech.
For a brief time he perhaps talked not quite so much. When his 'set' was
formed, the currents of argument and rhetoric had once more free course,
but they were beginning to flow less turbidly. His nature, as we know,
was not merely vehement; he had the instincts of a philosophical
inquirer, and his intellect speedily outgrew the stage of callowness.
When he came down for his first 'long' the change in him was so marked
that it astonished all who met him; that he appeared wholly unconscious
of the ripening he had undergone only made his development more
impressive. He had gone away a boy, and returned a man. He talked no
less than ever, but in a markedly improved tone. He was graver, more
seemly in the buoyant outbreaks in which he still occasionally indulged.
One reason of his rapid maturing no doubt lay in the fact that he was
already working too hard; his sprightliness was in a measure subdued by
wear of tissue. His father was shrewd enough to suspect something of
this, but it was difficult to interfere in any way. A month in
Switzerland seemed to set things right. On the present more serious
occasion, it had been deemed better not to set forth on a journey
forthwith; perfect repose at the house in Surrey was all that was
advised in the first instance. But it was clear that Wilfrid must have
some one to talk with. A succession of visits from such friends as were
available was speedily arranged. By the end of the first week, Wilfrid
had accommodated himself to his circumstances. His fretting at the
regulations imposed for his health almost ceased. At first this change
was viewed with suspicion, especially when he became more absorbed in
reflectiveness, and seemed to have less taste for conversation. However,
he was perfectly cheerful; there were no further symptoms to excite
alarm. Nor did the brooding period last very long. The only permanent
change was that he ceased to grumble at his hard lot, and appeared to
find his position very tolerable.
'It is the physical reaction,' observed Mr. Athel to his sister. 'The
body is indulging itself; recovery of health absorbs his energies.'
Opportunities for anything like sustained converse with Miss Hood,
Wilfrid found very few and far between; only once before the long talk
in the hollow had he been able to gratify his curiosity--perhaps
already some other feeling--in a dialogue of any intimacy. In a
situation such as this, delicacy prescribed a very rigid discretion;
Emily, moreover, was not facile of approach. Throughout the day she was
scarcely away from the children; of course he could and did often
exchange words with her in the presence of the twins, but he felt
himself held at a distance by a tact which was perfect; without undue
reserve, without a shadow of unrefined manoeuvring, Emily limited their
intercourse in precisely the way that Mr. Athel or Mrs. Rossall would
have deemed becoming. Then there were almost always guests at the house.
With prudent regard to the character of these visitors, Mrs. Rossall
chose opportunities for inviting the governess to the drawing-room
during the evening, but Emily was not wholly at her ease under such
conditions, and Wilfrid was withheld by only half-conscious motives from
talking with her at these times. He shrank from subjecting himself to
examination whilst encouraging her to speak on the subjects he would
naturally choose; he felt, too, that she desired him not to address her,
though this perception came to him in subtle ways of which he could
render to himself no account. For all this, their acquaintance, nay
their intimacy, grew. If ever eyes habitually expressed a
self-respecting frankness, if ever any were incapable of ignoble
artifice, they were Emily's; yet as time went on Wilfrid began to long
for the casual meeting with her glance for the mere reason that he felt
it as an exchange of words between her and himself. Thus it was that,
when at length the first real conversation came, it seemed the sequel of
many others, seemed so to both of them. They had divined each other;
speech did but put the seal of confirmation on knowledge gained by
mutual sympathy.
It may be presumed that neither Mr. Athel nor Mrs. Rossall was
altogether regardless of possibilities suggested by the abiding beneath
the same roof of an impetuous young man, forced into idleness, and a
girl who was above the average in mental endowments, whilst, on the
whole, she might be considered interesting in appearance. They exchanged
no remark on the subject; it was scarcely likely they should; but during
the first few weeks both were observant. Their observations were
reassuring to them. And indeed they had not anticipated trouble, for the
simple reason that both believed Wilfrid's affections to tend already in
a marked direction, and one of which they altogether approved. That he
would some day take for his wife Beatrice Redwing was a conclusion upon
which father and aunt had settled their minds; the conclusion was
reasonable enough, and well supported by such evidence as the ease
admitted. Mr. Athel had at an earlier period entertained certain
misgivings as to the desirability of such a marriage; misgivings which
had reference to the disastrous story of the Redwing household; the
conception of hereditary tendencies has become a strong force in our
time, and pronounced madness in a parent cannot as easily be disregarded
as it once was. But the advantages of the alliance were so considerable,
its likelihood so indisputable, that prudence had scarcely fair play;
besides, Beatrice had reached her twenty-first year without any sign of
mental trouble, and seemed as sound a girl as could anywhere be
discovered. The habitual sword-crossing between her and Wilfrid was
naturally regarded as their mode of growing endeared to each other;
their intellectual variances could not, by a sober gentleman of
eight-and-forty and by a young widow whose interest in the world was
reviving, be regarded as a bar to matrimony. 'Family,' Beatrice would
not bring, but she was certain to inherit very large fortune, which,
after all, means more than family nowadays. On the whole it was a
capital thing for Wilfrid that marriage would be entered upon in so
smooth a way. Mr. Athel was not forgetful of his own course in that
matter; he understood his father's attitude as he could not when
resisting it, and was much disposed to concede that there might have
been two opinions as to his own proceeding five-and-twenty years ago.
But for Beatrice, the young man's matrimonial future would have been to
his father a subject of constant apprehension; as it was, the situation
lost much of its natural hazard.
In Emily there was nothing that suggested sentimentality; rather one
would have thought her deficient in sensibility, judging from the tone
of her conversation. She did not freely express admiration, even in the
form of assent to what was said by others. To interpret her reticence as
shyness was a misunderstanding, or a misuse of words, natural in the
case of an inexact observer like Mrs. Rossall. Four years ago, when
Beatrice met her in Dunfield, her want of self-confidence was pronounced
enough; she had at that time never quitted her provincial home, and was
in the anomalous position of one who is intellectually outgrowing very
restricted social circumstances. The Baxendales were not wrong in
discussing her as shy. But that phase of her life was now left far
behind. Her extreme moderation was deliberate; it was her concession to
the fate which made her a governess. Courtesy and kindliness might lead
those whose bread she ate to endeavour occasionally to remove all show
of social distinction; neither her temperament nor her sense of
comeliness in behaviour would allow her to shrink from such advances,
but she could not lose sight of the unreality of the situations to which
they led. Self-respect is conditioned by the influence of circumstance
on character; in Emily it expressed itself as a subtle sensitiveness to
grades of sympathy. She could not shut her eyes to the actuality of
things; sincerity was the foundation of her being, and delicate
appreciation of its degrees in others regulated her speech and demeanour
with an exactitude inappreciable by those who take life in a rough and
ready way. When engaged in her work of teaching, she was at ease; alone
in the room which had been set apart for her, she lived in the freedom
of her instincts; but in Mrs. Rossall's drawing-room she could only act
a part, and all such divergence from reality was pain. It was not that
she resented her subordination, for she was almost devoid of social
ambitions and knew nothing of vulgar envy; still less did it come of
reasoned revolt against the artificial ordering of precedences; Emily's
thoughts did not tend that way. She could do perfect justice to the
amiable qualities of those who were set above her; she knew no
bitterness in the food which she duly earned; but, by no one's fault,
there was a vein of untruth in the life she had to lead. To remind
herself that such untruth was common to all lives, was an outcome of the
conditions of society, did not help her to disregard it; nature had
endowed her with a stern idealism which would not ally itself with
compromise. She was an artist in life. The task before her, a task of
which in these days she was growing more and more conscious, was to
construct an existence every moment of which should serve an
all-pervading harmony. The recent birth within her of a new feeling was
giving direction and vigour to the forces of her being; it had not as
yet declared itself as a personal desire; it wrought only as an
impassioned motive in the sphere of her intellectual aspirations, She
held herself more persistently apart from conventional intercourse; she
wished it had been possible to keep wholly to herself in the hours when
her services were not demanded. Mr. Athel, who liked to express himself
to young people with a sort of paternal geniality, rallied her one day
on her excessive study, and bade her be warned by a notorious example.
This had the effect of making her desist from reading in the presence of
other people.
She had known much happiness during these two months at The Firs,
happiness of a kind to dwell in the memory and be a resource in darker
days. Though mere personal ease was little the subject of her thoughts,
she prized for its effect upon her mind the air of graceful leisure, of
urbane repose, which pervaded the house. To compare The Firs with that
plain little dwelling on the skirts of a Yorkshire manufacturing town
which she called her home, was to understand the inestimable advantage
of those born into the material refinement which wealth can command, of
those who breathe from childhood the atmosphere of liberal enjoyment,
who walk from the first on clean ways, with minds disengaged from
anxiety of casual soilure, who know not even by domestic story the
trammels of sordid preoccupation. Thus it was with a sense of well-being
that she stepped on rich carpets, let her eyes wander over the light and
dark of rooms where wealth had done the bidding of taste, watched the
neat and silent ministering of servants. These things to her meant
priceless opportunity, the facilitating of self-culture. Even the little
room in which she sat by herself of evenings was daintily furnished;
when weary with reading, it eased and delighted her merely to gaze at
the soft colours of the wall-paper, the vases with their growing
flowers, the well-chosen pictures, the graceful shape of a chair; she
nursed her appreciation of these Joys, resisted the ingress of
familiarity, sought daily for novel aspects of things become intimately
known. She rose at early hours that she might have the garden to herself
in all its freshness; she loved to look from her window into the calm
depth of the summer midnight. In this way she brought into consciousness
the craving of her soul, made the pursuit of beauty a religion, grew to
welcome the perception of new meaning in beautiful things with a
spiritual delight. This was the secret of her life, which she guarded so
jealously, which she feared even by chance to betray in the phrasings of
common intercourse. Wilfrid had divined it, and it was the secret
influence of this sympathy that had led her to such unwonted frankness
in their latest conversation.
Mrs. Rossall had spoken to her of Beatrice Redwing's delightful singing,
and had asked her to come to the drawing-room during the evening; having
declined the afternoon's drive, Emily did not feel able to neglect this
other invitation. The day had become sultry towards its close; when she
joined the company about nine o'clock, she found Beatrice with Mrs.
Rossall sitting in the dusk by the open French windows, Mr. Athel in a
chair just outside, and Wilfrid standing by him, the latter pair
smoking. The sky beyond the line of dark greenery was still warm with
after-glow of sunset.
Emily quietly sought a chair near Mrs. Rossall, from whom she received a
kind look. Mr. Athel was relating a story of his early wanderings in
Egypt, with a leisurely gusto, an effective minuteness of picturing, the
result of frequent repetition. At the points of significance he would
pause for a moment or two and puff life into his cigar. His anecdotes
were seldom remarkable, but they derived interest from the enjoyment
with which he told them; they impressed one with a sense of mental
satisfaction, of physical robustness held in reserve, of life content
among the good things of the world.
'Shall we have lights?' Mrs. Rossall asked, when the story at length
came to an end.
'Play us something first,' said Beatrice. 'This end of twilight is so
pleasant.'
Mrs. Rossall went to the piano, upon which still fell a glimmer from
another window, and filled the room with harmony suiting the hour.
Wilfrid had come in and seated himself on a couch in a dark corner; his
father paced up and down the grass. Emily watched the first faint gleam
of stars in the upper air.
Then lamps and candles were brought in. Beatrice was seen to be dressed
in dark blue, her hair richly attired, a jewelled cross below her
throat, her bosom and arms radiant in bare loveliness. Emily, at the
moment that she regarded her, found herself also observed. Her own dress
was of warm grey, perfectly simple, with a little lace at the neck and
wrists. Beatrice averted her eyes quickly, and made some laughing remark
to Mr. Athel.
'I know you always object to sing without some musical preparation,'
said Mrs. Rossall, as she took a seat by the girl's side. 'I wonder
whether we ought to close the windows; are you afraid of the air?'
'Oh, leave them open!' Beatrice replied. 'It is so close.'
Her cheeks had a higher colour than usual; she lay back in the chair
with face turned upwards, her eyes dreaming.
'You are tired, I am afraid,' Mrs. Rossall said, 'in spite of your sleep
in the hammock. The first day in the country always tires me
dreadfully.'
'Yes, I suppose I am, a little,' murmured Beatrice.
'Not too tired, I hope, to sing,' said Wilfrid, coming from his couch in
the corner to a nearer seat. His way of speaking was not wholly natural;
like his attitude, it had something constrained; he seemed to be
discharging a duty.
'Observe the selfishness of youth,' remarked Mr. Athel.
'Age, I dare say, has its selfishness too in the present instance,' was
Mrs. Rossall's rejoinder.
'To whom does that refer?' questioned her brother, jocosely.
Beatrice turned her head suddenly towards Emily.
'Shall I sing, Miss Hood?' she asked, with a touch of her _ingenue_
manner, though the playfulness of her words rang strangely.
'It will give me much pleasure to hear you,' was the sober reply, coming
after an instant of embarrassment.
Beatrice rose. Her movement across the room had a union of conscious
stateliness and virgin grace which became her style of beauty; it was in
itself the introduction to fine music. Mrs. Rossall went to accompany.
Choice was made of a solo from an oratorio; Beatrice never sang
trivialities of the day, a noteworthy variance from her habits in other
things. In a little while, Wilfrid stirred to enable himself to see
Emily's face; it showed deep feeling. And indeed it was impossible to
hear that voice and remain unmoved; its sweetness, its force, its skill
were alike admirable. Beatrice conversing was quite other than Beatrice
when she sang; music was her mode of self-utterance; from the first
sustained note it was felt that a difficulty of expression had been
overcome, and that she was saying things which at other times she could
not, disclosing motives which as a rule the complexities of her
character covered and concealed, which were not clear to her own
consciousness till the divine impulse gave them form. It was no shallow
nature that could pour forth this flood of harmony. The mere gift of a
splendid voice, wrought to whatever degree of perfection, would not
invest with this rare power. In technical qualities she might have much
still to learn, but the passionate poetry of her notes was what no
training could have developed, and it would never evince itself with
more impressiveness than to-night.
It seemed frivolous to speak thanks. Wilfrid gazed out into the dark of
the garden; Emily kept her eyes bent downward. She heard the rustle of
Beatrice's dress near her. Mr. Athel began to speak of the piece the
sound of Beatrice's voice replying caused Emily at length to look up,
and she met the dark eyes, still large with the joy of song. Her own
gaze had a beautiful solemnity, a devout admiration, of which it was
impossible to doubt the genuineness; Beatrice, observing it, smiled very
slightly before turning away again.
A quarter of an hour after, Emily withdrew. Mrs. Rossall played a
little, and talk of an idle kind followed. Wilfrid was not disposed to
take his usual part in conversation, and his casual remarks were
scarcely ever addressed to Beatrice. Presently Mrs. Rossall wished to
refer to the 'Spectator,' which contained a criticism of a new pianist
of whom there was much talk just then.
'Have you had it, Wilf?' Mr. Athel asked, after turning over a heap of
papers in vain.
'Oh, the "Spectator,"' Wilfrid replied, rousing himself from absentness.
'Yes, I had it in the summer-house just before dinner; I believe I left
it there. Shall I fetch it?'
'It would serve you right if I said yes,' admonished Mrs. Rossall. 'In
the first place you had no business to be reading it--'
'I will go,' Wilfrid said, rising with an effort.
'No, no; it will do to-morrow.'
'May as well get it now,' he said indifferently, and went out by the
window.
That part of the garden through which he walked lay in the shadow of the
house; the sky was full of moonlight, but the moon itself was still low.
A pathway between laurels led to the summer-house. Just short of the
little building, he passed the edge of shade, and, before entering,
turned to view the bright crescent as it hung just above the house-roof.
Gazing at the forms of silvered cloud floating on blue depths, he heard
a movement immediately behind him; he turned, to behold Emily standing
in the doorway. The moon's rays shone full upon her; a light shawl which
seemed to have covered her head had slipped down to her shoulders, and
one end was held in a hand passed over her breast. There was something
in the attitude which strikingly became her; her slight figure looked
both graceful and dignified. The marble hue of her face, thus gleamed
upon, added to the statuesque effect; her eyes had a startled look,
their lids drooped as Wilfrid regarded her.
'You have been sitting here since you left us?' he asked, in a voice
attuned to the night's hush.
'I was tempted to come out; the night is so beautiful.'
'It is.'
He uttered the assent mechanically; his eyes, like hers, had fallen, but
he raised them again to her face. It seemed to him in this moment the
perfect type of spiritual beauty; the brow so broad and pure, the eyes
far-seeing in their maidenly reserve, the lips full, firm, of infinite
refinement and sweetness. He felt abashed before her, as he had never
done. They had stood thus but a moment or two, yet it seemed long to
both. Emily stepped from the wooden threshold on to the grass.
'Somebody wants the "Spectator,"' he said hurriedly. 'I believe I left
it here.'
'Yes, it is on the table.'
With a perfectly natural impulse, she quickly re-entered the house, to
reach the paper she had seen only a minute ago. Without reflection,
heart-beats stifling his thought, he stepped after her. The shadow made
her turn rapidly; a shimmer of silver light through the lattice-work
still touched her features; her lips were parted as if in fear.
'Emily!'
He did not know that he had spoken. The name upon his tongue, a name he
had said low to himself often to-day and yesterday, was born of the
throe which made fire-currents of his veins, the passion which at the
instant seized imperiously upon his being. She could not see his face,
and hers to him was a half-veiled glory, yet each knew the wild gaze,
the all but terror, in the other's eyes, that anguish which indicates a
supreme moment in life, a turning-point of fate.
She had no voice. Wilfrid's words at length made way impetuously.
'I thought I could wait longer, and try in the meanwhile to win your
kind thoughts for me; but I dare not part from you for so long, leaving
it a mere chance that you will come back. I must say to you what it
means, the hope of seeing you again. All the other desires of my life
are lost in that. You are my true self, for which I shall seek in vain
whilst I am away from you. Can you give me anything--a promise of kind
thought--a hope--to live upon till I see you?'
'I cannot come back.'
But for the intense stillness he could not have caught the words; they
were sighed rather than spoken.
'Because I have said this?--Emily!'
He saw the white shape of her hand resting upon the table, and held it
in his own, that exquisite hand which he had so often longed to touch;
how cold it was! yet how soft, living! She made no effort to draw it
away.
'I cannot say now what I wish to,' he spoke hurriedly. 'I must see you
to-morrow--you will not refuse? I _must_ see you! You are often out very
early; I shall be at the hollow, where we talked yesterday, early, at
seven o'clock--you will come? If the morning is not fine, then the day
after. Emily, you will meet me?'
'I will meet you.'
He touched her fingers with his lips, took the paper, and hastened back
to the house. His absence had not seemed long: it was only of five
minutes. Reaching the open windows, he did not enter at once, but stood
there and called to those within to come and admire the night; he felt
his face hot and flushed.
'What is there remarkable about the night?' asked Mr. Athel, sauntering
forwards.
'Come and look at this glorious moon, Miss Redwing,' Wilfrid exclaimed,
once more with the natural friendliness of his habitual tone to her.
'It seems to have put you into excellent spirits,' remarked Mrs.
Rossall, as, followed by Beatrice, she approached the window. 'Have you
found the "Spectator?" that's the point.'
Wilfrid continued speaking in a raised voice, for it was just possible,
he thought, that Emily might come this way round to enter, and he wished
her to be apprised of their presence. All went back into the room after
a few moments, and, as the air had grown cooler, the windows were
closed. As Wilfrid seated himself in a dusky part of the room, he
noticed that Beatrice was regarding him steadily. She had not spoken
since his return, and did not do so till she presently rose to say
good-night. To Wilfrid she used no form of words, merely giving him her
hand; that other had been so cold, how hot this was!
She laughed as she turned from him.
'What is the source of amusement?' inquired Mr. Athel, who was standing
by with his hands upon his hips.
'Indeed I don't know,' returned Beatrice, laughing again slightly. 'I
sometimes laugh without cause.'
Emily had passed upstairs and gone to her bedroom but a moment before,
treading with quick soundless steps. When Wilfrid left her in the
summer-house, she stood unmoving, and only after a minute or two changed
her attitude by putting her palms against her face, as if in the gloom
she found too much light. It was a sensation of shame which came upon
her, a tremor of maidenhood in re-living, swift instant by instant, all
that had just passed. Had she in any way aided in bringing about that
confession? Had she done anything, made a motion, uttered a tone, which
broke away the barrier between herself and him? When she could recover
self-consciousness, disembarrass herself of the phantom moments which
would not fleet with the rest of time, it was scarcely joy which she
read in her heart; apprehension, dismay, lack of courage to look forward
beyond this night, these oppressed her. Then, close upon the haunting
reality of his voice, his touch, came inability to believe what had
happened. Had a transient dreamful slumber crept upon her as she sat
here alone? So quickly had the world suffered re-creation, so magical
the whelming of old days in a new order, so complete the change in
herself. One word she knew which had power from eternity to do these
things, and that word neither he nor she had uttered. But there was no
need, when the night spoke it in every beat of time.
Fearful of being seen, she at length ventured to return to the house.
Moonlight streamed full upon her bed; it would have irked her as yet to
take off her clothes, she lay in the radiance, which seemed to touch her
with warm influences, and let her eyes rest upon the source of light.
Then at length joy came and throned in her heart, joy that would mate
with no anxious thought, no tremulous brooding. This was _her_ night!
There might be other happy beings in the world to whom it was also the
beginning of new life, but in _her_ name was its consecration, hers the
supremacy of blessedness. Let the morrow wait on the hour of waking, if
indeed sleep would ever come; this moment, the sacred _now_, was all
that she could comprehend.
She undressed at length, and even slept, fitfully, always to start into
wakefulness with a sense of something to be thought upon, to be
realised, to be done. The weariness of excitement perturbed her joy; the
meeting which was to take place in a few hours became a nervous
preoccupation. The moonlight had died away; the cold light of dawn began
to make objects in the room distinct. Was it good to have consented so
readily to meet him? Nay, but no choice had been left her; his eagerness
would take no refusal; and it was impossible for things to remain as
they were, without calmer talk between them. It was her resource to
remember his energetic will, his force of character; the happiness of
passively submitting to what he might dictate; sure of his scrupulous
honour, his high ideal. Could she indeed have borne to go into exile
from his presence, without a hope that this the noblest and most
aspiring life that had ever approached her might be something more than
a star to worship? If wealth comes, we wonder how we drew breath in
poverty; yet we lived, and should have lived on. Let the gods be
thanked, whom it pleases to clothe the soul with joy which is
superfluous to bare existence Might she not now hallow herself to be a
true priestess of beauty? Would not life be vivid with new powers and
possibilities? Even as that heaven was robing itself in glory of
sunrise, with warmth and hue which strengthened her again to overcome
anxieties. Was he waking? Was he impatient for the hour of his meeting
with her? She would stand face to face with him in the full Sunlight
this time, but with what deep humility! Should she be able to find
words? She had scarcely spoken to him, ever, as yet, and now there was
more to say than hours of solitude would leave time for. She knew not
whether to bid the sun linger or speed.
There was nothing unusual in her rising and going forth early, though
perhaps she had never issued from the house quite so early as this
morning; it was not yet six o'clock when she gently closed the
garden-gate behind her, and walked along the road which led on to the
common. The sun had already warmed the world, and the sheen of earth and
heaven was at its brightest; the wind sweeping from the downs was like
the breath of creation, giving life to forms of faultless beauty.
Emily's heart lacked no morning hymn; every sense revelled in that pure
joy which is the poetry of praise. She wished it had been near the hour
of meeting, yet again was glad to have time to prepare herself. Walking,
she drank in the loveliness about her, marked the forms of trees, the
light and shade of heavy leafage, the blendings of colour by the
roadside, the grace of remote distances; all these things she was making
part of herself, that in memory they might be a joy for ever. It is the
art of life to take each moment of mental joy, of spiritual openness, as
though it would never be repeated, to cling to it as a pearl of great
price, to exhaust its possibilities of sensation. At the best, such
moments will be few amid the fateful succession of common cares, of
lassitudes, of disillusions. Emily had gone deep enough in thought
already to understand this; in her rapture there was no want of
discerning consciousness. If this morning were to be unique in her life,
she would have gained from it all that it had to give. Those subtle
fears, spiritual misgivings, which lurked behind her perceptions would
again have their day, for it was only by striving that she had attained
her present modes of thought; her nature concealed a darker strain, an
instinct of asceticism, which had now and again predominated, especially
in the period of her transition to womanhood, when the material
conditions of her life were sad and of little hope. It was no spirit of
unreflective joy that now dwelt within her, but the more human happiness
extorted from powers which only yield to striving. Hitherto her life's
morning had been but cold and grey; she had trained herself to expect no
breaking forth of gleams from the sober sky. This sudden splendour might
be transitory.
But who was that already standing by the hollow? Was it likely that he
would be later than she at the place of meeting! Emily stood with a
shock of life at the gates of her heart. She tried to keep her eyes
raised to his as she approached slowly, he with more speed. Would she
not after all find voice for the things she had to say?
Wilfrid came to her with bare head, and took her hand; no more than took
her hand, for he was in awe of the solemn beauty of her countenance.
'You thought I should keep you waiting?' he asked in a low voice
trembling with joy. 'I have watched the sun rise.'
'The door had not been opened--'
'My window is not high above the ground,' he answered, with an uncertain
laugh.
They walked side by side over the heather, towards the beginning of a
wood, young fir trees mingling with gorse and bracken. Beyond was the
dense foliage of older growths. He had again taken one of her hands, and
so led her on.
'Emily!'
She was able to look into his face for a moment, but the moving of her
lips gave no sound.
'I could not sleep,' he went on, 'so I read of you till dawn in the
Knightes Tale. It is a name I have always loved, sweet, musical, but of
deep meaning. Will you not let me hear you speak, Emily?'
She uttered a few timid words, then they passed on in silence till the
wood was all about them.
'May I tell you the plan which I have made in the night?' he said, as
they stood on a spot of smooth turf, netted with sunlight. 'You leave us
in two days. Before we start for London, I shall speak with my father,
and tell him what has come about. You remember what I was saying about
him the day before yesterday; perhaps it was with a half-thought of
this--so daring I was, you see! I have no fear of his kindness, his good
sense. At the same time, it is right you should know that my
independence is assured; my grandfather left me far more than enough for
mere needs. By the summer of next year I shall be free of Oxford. I care
little now for such honours as those; you have honoured me more than any
other voice has power to do. But my father would be disappointed if I
did not go on to the end, and do something of what is expected. Now you
must tell me freely is there absolute necessity for your maintaining
yourself in the meanwhile, for your leaving home?'
'There is,' she replied.
'Then will you continue to teach the children as usual?'
She was touched with apprehension.
'Gladly I would do so--but is it possible? Would you conceal from Mrs.
Rossall--'
Wilfrid mused.
'I meant to. But your instincts are truer than mine; say what you think.
I believe my father would countenance it, for it involves no real
deceit.'
'If you wish it,' Emily said, after a silence, in a low voice.
'Of my aunt,' pursued Wilfrid, 'I have just this degree of doubt. She
might make difficulties; her ways of thinking differ often from ours.
Yet it is far better that you should continue to live with us. I myself
shall scarcely ever be at home; it will not be as if I dwelt under the
roof; I will make my visits as short as possible, not to trouble you. I
could not let you go to the house of other people--you to lack
consideration, perhaps to meet unkindness! Rather than that, you shall
stay in your own home, or I will not return to Oxford at all.'
Emily stood in anxious thought. He drew a step nearer to her; seemed
about to draw nearer still, but checked himself as she looked up.
'I fear we must not do that,' she said. 'Mrs. Rossall would not forgive
me.'
Woman's judgment of woman, and worth much more than Wilfrid's rough and
ready scheming.
Wilfrid smiled.
'Then she also shall know,' he exclaimed. 'She shall take nay view of
this; I will not be gainsaid. What is there in the plan that common
sense can object to? Your position is not that of a servant; you are
from the first our friend you honour us by the aid you give, efficient
as few could make it. Yes, there shall be no concealment far better so.'
'You have no fear of the views they will take?'
'None!' he said, with characteristic decision. 'If they are
unreasonable, absurd, our course is plain enough. You will be my wife
when I ask you to, Emily?'
She faltered, and held her hand to him.
'Is it worth while to go hack to Oxford?' he mused, caressing the
fingers he had kissed.
'Oh, yes; you must,' Emily urged, with a sort of fear in her sudden
courage. 'You must not disappoint them, your father, your friends.'
'My fair wise one!' he murmured, gazing rapturously at her. 'Oh, Emily,
think what our life will be! Shall we not drain the world of its wisdom,
youth of its delight! Hand in hand, one heart, one brain--what shall
escape us? It was you I needed to give completeness to my thought and
desire.'
The old dream, the eternal fancy. This one, this and no other, chosen
from out the myriads of human souls. Individuality the servant of
passion; mysteries read undoubtingly with the eye of longing. Bead
perhaps so truly; who knows?
She came nearer, imperceptibly, her raised face aglow like the morning.
'Wilfrid--you believe--you know that I love you?'
The last word breathed out in the touching of lips with lips. What could
he reply, save those old, simple words of tenderness, that small
vocabulary of love, common to child and man? The goddess that made
herself woman for his sake--see, did he not hold her clasped to him! But
she was mute again. The birds sang so loudly round about them, uttered
their hearts so easily, but Emily could only speak through silence. And
afterwards she knew there was so much she should have said. What matter?
One cannot find tongue upon the threshold of the holy of holies.