HER PATH IN THE LIGHT
That Wilfrid did not at the last moment leap on shore and follow Emily
seemed to him less the result of self-control than obedience to outward
restraint; it was as though an actual hand lay on his shoulder and held
him back. He went back to his seat, and again fell into dreaminess.
The arrival of the boat at Chelsea pier reminded him that he must land;
thence he drove home. On reaching the house he found Mrs. Birks there;
she had called to see his father, and was in the hall on the point of
leaving as he entered. She stepped up to him, and spoke in a low voice.
'What is the matter with Beatrice?'
'The matter? How?'
'She seems out of sorts. Come round and see her, will you?'
'I really can't just now,' Wilfrid replied. 'Do you mean that she is not
well?'
'Something seems to be upsetting her. Why can't you come and see her?'
'I can't this evening. I have an engagement.'
'Very well. But you had better come soon, I think.'
'I don't understand you,' said Wilfrid, with some show of impatience.
'Is she ill?'
'Not exactly ill, I suppose. Of course I mustn't interfere. No doubt you
understand.'
'I will come as soon as I can,' Wilfrid said. And he added, 'Has
she--spoken to you about anything?'
'I wish she had. She will speak neither to me nor to anyone else. It is
too bad, Wilf, if you let her fret herself into a fever. She is just the
girl to do it, you know.'
She nodded, smiled, and went off. Wilfrid, having committed himself to
an engagement, loitered about in his dressing-room for a while, then,
without seeing his father, betook himself to his club and dined there.
After passing the early part of the evening in an uncomfortable way,
with the help of newspapers and casual conversation, he went home again
and shut himself in his study.
He sat long, without attempting to do anything. About midnight he rose
as if to leave the room, but, instead of doing so, paced the floor for a
few minutes; then he opened a certain drawer in his writing-table, and
took out the morocco case which contained Emily's letters. He slipped
off the band. The letters were still in their envelopes, and lay in the
order in which he had received them. He drew forth the first and began
to read it. He read them all.
Till the early daybreak he remained in the room, sometimes walking
about, sometimes seating himself to re-read this letter and that.
Twenty-four hours ago these written words would have touched his heart
indeed, but only as does the memory of an irrecoverable joy; he could
have read them, and still have gone to meet Beatrice as usual, or with
but a little more than his ordinary reserve in her presence. It was
otherwise now. The very voice had spoken again, and its tones lingering
with him made the written characters vocal; each word uttered itself as
it met his eye; Emily spoke still. The paper was old, the ink faded, but
the love was of this hour. He grew fevered, and it was the fever of
years ago, which had only been in appearance subdued; it had lurked
still in his blood, and now asserted itself with the old dire mastery.
He marvelled that he had suffered her to leave him without even learning
where she lived. He could not understand what his mood had been, what
motives had weighed with him. He had not been conscious of a severe
struggle to resist a temptation; the temptation had not, in fact, yet
formed itself. What was her own thought? She had answered his questions
freely, perhaps would have told him without hesitation the address of
her lodgings. Clearly she no longer sought to escape him. But that, he
reminded himself, was only the natural response to his own perfectly
calm way of speaking; she could not suggest embarrassments when it was
his own cue to show that he felt none. She was still free, it seemed,
but what was her feeling towards him? Did she still love him? Was the
mysterious cause which had parted them still valid?
When already it was daylight, he went upstairs and lay down on the bed;
he was weary, but not with the kind of weariness that brings sleep. His
mind was occupied with plans for discovering where Emily lived. Mrs.
Baxendale had professed to have lost sight of her; Wilfrid saw now that
there was a reason for concealing the truth, and felt that in all
probability his friend had misled him; in any case, he could not apply
to her. Was there a chance of a second meeting in the same place? Emily
was sure to be free on Saturday afternoon; but only in one case would
she go to the park again--if she desired to see him, and imagined a
corresponding desire on his side. And that was an unlikely thing;
granting she loved him, it was not in Emily's character to scheme thus,
under the circumstances.
Yet why had she chosen to come and live in London?
Beatrice he had put out of his thoughts. He did not do it deliberately;
he made no daring plans; simply he gave himself over to the rising flood
of passion, without caring to ask whither it would bear him. Though it
fevered him, there was a luxury in the sense of abandonment once more to
desire which suffered no questioning. That he had ever really loved
Beatrice he saw now to be more than doubtful; that he loved Emily was as
certain as that he lived. To compare the images of the two women was to
set side by side a life sad and wan with one which bloomed like a royal
flower, a face whose lines were wasted by long desolation with one whose
loveliness was the fit embodiment of supreme joy. But in the former he
found a beauty of which the other offered no suggestion, a beauty which
appealed to him with the most subtle allurements, which drew him as with
siren song, which, if he still contemplated it, would inspire him with
recklessness. He made no effort to expel it from his imagination; every
hour it was sweeter to forget the facts of life and dream of what might
be.
Through this day and that which followed he kept away from home, only
returning late at night. No more news of Beatrice came. He saw that his
father regarded him with looks of curiosity, but only conversation of
the wonted kind passed between them. When Saturday arrived he was no
longer in doubt whether to pursue the one faint hope of finding Emily
again in Bushey Park; the difficulty was to pass the time till noon,
before which it was useless to start. He was due for the last sitting in
the studio at Teddington, but that was an ordeal impossible to go
through in his present state of mind. He went to Hampton by train,
lunched again at the King's Arms, though but hastily, and at length
reached the spot in the park where his eyes had discovered Emily
reading.
It was not such a day as Wednesday had been; the sun shone
intermittently, but there was threatening of rain. A vehicle now and
then drove along the avenue taking holiday-makers to the Palace, and,
near the place where Wilfrid walked, a party was picnicking under the
trees. But he in vain sought for one who wandered alone, one who, in the
distance, could move him to uncertain hope.
Why had he come? Suppose he did again meet Emily, what had he to say to
her? Long and useless waiting naturally suggested such thoughts, and the
answer to them was a momentary failing at the heart, a touch of fear.
Was he prepared to treat this temporary coldness between Beatrice and
himself as a final rupture? Was his present behaviour exactly that of a
man who recognises rules of honour? If he had no purpose in wishing to
see Emily but the satisfaction of a desire about which he would not
reason, was it not unqualified treachery in which he was involving
himself, treachery to two women and to one of them utter cruelty? He
turned to walk towards the lake, desperate that his hope had failed, and
at the same time--strange contradiction--glad in the thought that,
having once yielded, he might overcome his madness. He passed the lake,
and reached the exit from the park. At the same moment Emily was
entering.
Her face expressed an agony of shame; she could not raise her eyes,
could not speak. She gave him her hand mechanically, and walked on with
her looks averted. Her distress was so unconcealed that it pained him
acutely. He could not find words till they had walked a distance of
twenty or thirty yards. Then he said:
'I came purposely to-day, in the hope that you might by chance be here.
Do I annoy you?'
She half turned her face to him, but the effort to speak was vain.
A still longer silence followed. Wilfrid knew at length what he had
done. That utterance of his had but one meaning, Emily's mute reply
admitted of but one interpretation. His eyes dazzled; his heart beat
violently. A gulf sank before him, and there was no longer choice but to
plunge into it. He looked at his companion, and--farewell the solid
ground.
'Emily, is it your wish that I should leave you?'
She faced him, moved her lips, motioned 'no' with her head. She was like
one who is led to death.
'Then I will not leave you. Let us walk gently on; you shall speak to me
when you feel able.'
He cared for no obstacle now. She was come back to him from the dead,
and to him it was enough of life to hold her. Let the world go; let all
speak of him as they would; this pale, weary-eyed woman should
henceforth represent existence to him. He would know no law but the
bidding of his sovereign love.
She spoke.
'Have I fallen in your eyes?'
'You have always been to me the highest, and will be whilst I live.'
They had passed into the shadow of the trees; he took her hand and held
it. The touch seemed to strengthen her, for she looked at him again and
spoke firmly.
'Neither was my coming without thought of you. I had no hope that you
would be here, no least hope, but I came because it was here I had seen
you.'
'Since Wednesday,' Wilfrid returned, 'I have read your letters many
times. Could you still speak to me as you did then?'
'If you could believe me.'
'You said once that you did not love me.'
'It was untrue.'
'May you tell me now what it was that came between us?'
She fixed upon him a gaze of sad entreaty, and said, under her breath,
'Not now.'
'Then I will never ask. Let it be what it might; your simple word that
you loved me is all I need.'
'I will tell you,' Emily replied, 'but I cannot now. It seemed to me at
the time that that secret would have to die with me; I thought so till I
met you here. Then I knew that, if you still loved me and had been
faithful to me so long, I could say nothing to myself which I might not
speak to you. My love for you has conquered every other love and
everything that I believed my duty.'
'Is it so, Emily?' he asked, with deepest tenderness.
'When I tell you all, you will perhaps feel that I have proved my own
weakness. I will conceal from you nothing I have ever thought; you will
see that I tried to do what my purest instincts urged, and that I have
been unable to persevere to the end. Wilfrid--'
'My own soul!'
'When I tell you all that happened at that time, I shall indeed speak to
you as if your soul and mine were one. It may be wrong to tell you--you
may despise me for not keeping such things a secret for ever. I cannot
tell whether I am right or wrong to do this. Is your love like mine?'
'I would say it was greater, if you were not so above me in all things.'
'Wilfrid, I was dying in my loneliness. It would not have been hard to
die, for, if I was weak in everything else, at least my love for you
would have grown to my last breath. If I speak things which I should
only prove in silence, it is that you may not afterwards judge me
hardly.'
'You shall tell me,' Wilfrid replied, 'when you are my wife. Till then I
will hear nothing but that you are and always have been mine.'
They came to a great tree about the trunk of which had been built a
circular seat. The glades on every side showed no disturbing approach.
'Let us sit here,' said Wilfrid. 'We have always talked with each other
in the open air, haven't we?'
He drew her to him and kissed her face passionately. It was the
satisfying of a hunger of years. With Beatrice his caresses had seldom
been other than playful; from the first moment of re-meeting with Emily,
he had longed to hold her to his heart.
'Can I hope to keep you now? You won't leave me again, Emily?'
'If I leave you, Wilfrid, it will be to die.'
Again he folded her in his arms, and kissed her lips, her cheeks, her
eyes. She was as weak as a trembling flower.
'Emily, I shall be in dread through every moment that parts us. Will you
consent to whatever I ask of you? Once before I would have taken you and
made you my wife, and if you had yielded we should have escaped all this
long misery. Will you now do what I wish?'
She looked at him questioningly.
'Will you marry me as soon as it can possibly be? On Monday I will do
what is necessary, and we can be married on Wednesday. This time you
will not refuse?'
'Wednesday?'
'Yes. One day only need intervene between the notice and the marriage;
it shall be at the church nearest to you.'
'Wilfrid, why do you--'
Fear had taken hold upon her she could not face the thought. Wilfrid
checked her faint words with his lips.
'I wish it,' he said, himself shaken with a tempest of passion which
whelmed the last protest of his conscience. 'I shall scarcely tear
myself from you even till then. Emily, Emily, what has my life been
without your love? Oh, you will be the angel that raises me out of the
ignoble world into which I have fallen! Hold me to you--make me feel and
believe that you have saved me! Emily, my beautiful, my goddess! let me
worship you, pray to you! Mine now, mine, love, for ever and ever!
She burst into tears, unable to suffer this new denizen of her heart,
the sure and certain hope of bliss. He kissed away the tears as they
fell, whispering love that was near to frenzy. There came a Bob that
shook her whole frame, then Wilfrid felt her cheek grow very cold
against his; her eyes were half closed, from her lips escaped a faint
moan. He drew back and, uncertain whether she had lost consciousness,
called to her to speak. Her body could not fall, for it rested against a
hollow part of the great trunk. The faintness lasted only for a few
moments; she once more gazed at him with the eyes of infinite sadness.
'It is so hard to bear happiness,' were her first words.
'My dearest, you are weak and worn with trouble. Oh, we will soon leave
that far behind us. Are you better, my lily? Only give me your hands to
hold, and I will be very still. Your hands are so light; they weigh no
more than leaves. Do you suffer, dear?'
'A little pain--there;' she touched her heart.
Wilfrid looked into her face anxiously.
'Have you often that pain?'
'No, not often. I don't feel it now. Wilfrid! Every day I have spoken
that name, have spoken it aloud.'
'So have I often spoken yours, dear.'
They gazed at each other in silence.
'And it is to be as I wish?' Wilfrid said gently.
'So very soon?'
'So very long! This is only Saturday. If I had known this morning, it
could have been on Monday.'
'Your wife, Wilfrid? Really your wife?'
'How your voice has changed! Till now you spoke so sadly. Those words
are like the happiest of our old happy time. Three long days to be
passed, but not one day more. You promise me?'
'I do your bidding, now and always, always!'
For the moment she had forgotten everything but love and love's rapture.
It was as though life spread before her in limitless glory; she thought
nothing of the dark foe with whose ever-watchful, ever-threatening
presence she had become so familiar.
They talked long; only the lengthening and deepening shadow of the trees
reminded them at length that hours had passed whilst they sat here.
'The boat will have gone,' Emily said.
'Never mind. We will get a conveyance at the hotel. And you must have
refreshment of some kind. Shall we see what they can give us to eat at
the King's Arms? To be sure we will. It will be our first meal
together.'
They rose.
'Emily!'
'Yes, Wilfrid?'
'I can trust you? You will not fail me?'
'Not if I am living, Wilfrid.'
'Oh, but I shall of course see you before Wednesday. To-morrow is
Sunday--'
He checked himself. Sunday was the day he always gave to Beatrice. But
he durst not think of that now.
'On Sunday there are so many people about,' he continued. 'Will you come
here again on Monday afternoon?'
Emily promised to do so.
'I will write to you to-morrow, and again a letter for Tuesday, giving
you the last directions. But I may have to see you on Tuesday. May I
call at your lodgings?'
'If you need to. Surely you may? My--my husband?'
'My wife!'
They walked to the hotel, and thence, when dusk was falling, started to
drive homewards. They stopped at the end of Emily's street, and Wilfrid
walked with her to the door.
'Till Monday afternoon,' he said, grasping her hand as if he clung to it
in fear.
Then he found another vehicle. It was dark when he reached home.